


An Invitation to Happiness

by EnduringParadox



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arranged Marriage, Blow Jobs, Diarmuid in Distress, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Happy Ending, Honestly more fluff than angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Sleazebag Raymond, for those who want the smut: chapter seven and chapter ten
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:16:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 63,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24497809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnduringParadox/pseuds/EnduringParadox
Summary: ...his cousin has used his power and influence to pluck a young man meant for the cloth from his home and arrange for him to marry David, who’s no match for anyone. He’s a wreck of a man, only known for his skill at killing, at murder. Would his husband want to hold him, with his body a mess of scar tissue? Could David tell him sweet nothings with his ruined voice? Would he want to be touched with calloused hands that have crushed men’s throats? All this and more awaits the poor former novice.-----An arranged marriage AU in a vaguely historical fantasy setting.
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Comments: 78
Kudos: 126





	1. The Soldier

**Author's Note:**

> The setting and time period isn't really anywhere but is medieval-esque. 
> 
> Shout out to "Pleyn Delit: Medieval Cookery for Modern Cooks" by Constance Hieatt, Sharon Butler, and Brenda Hosington for all the food mentioned in this chapter and following chapters.

David hadn’t fought for glory or gold. At the time, he thought he’d stood for God—that the king’s cause, which he so readily made his own, was not only legitimate but justified both on earth and in the eyes of Heaven. More than five years later, carved into adulthood by the sword’s blade, his body a hardened knot of scarred skin, his throat ravaged by his own roars of rage and anguish, David knows better. That he had gone to war simply because he had been foolish. Because he’d been a young man but had still looked at war with a boy’s eyes—half a solemn duty, half a game. Something that would be done and done with satisfaction.

There have been ceremonies and feasts and parades held and titles bequeathed and statues constructed, all to honor the kingdom’s efforts and the people's sacrifices, the actions and achievements of its brave warriors, but David knows the truth of the matter. That both the singular task and only satisfaction there is in war is to survive. But still, the king had promised property and land to his greatest soldiers, and in his eyes there are none greater than his own cousins.

David has known both the king and Raymond for their entire lives. The three of them were close as children, attending and avoiding lessons together, playing soldiers with sticks, and then, once upon a time, brothers in battle. David’s affection for them has waned considerably in the past few years, to say the least. The war that left an untold number dead, that had drained any of the youth and gentleness from David and countless others, had started because of the king’s bruised ego and only ended when it was soothed, his power and prestige acknowledged in the form of unconditional surrender and more than half a decade’s worth of bloodshed. And Raymond, who had been a petulant, callous child, always more prone to anger and cruelty, had blossomed into a monster. He had always been covetous; just of toys and horses at first, but then, as they grew older, the riches and power of those in the court—their titles, their clothes, their homes, their lovers. The war had given him the power to take.

It hurts and angers him to listen to the king, still as flippant and carefree as he was when they were young. It sickens him to see Raymond after all he did in the war, both inside and outside of battle. David wants nothing to do with their schemes anymore, but the king’s fondness for Raymond and himself continues to bind the three of them together. That’s why David is there in the king’s private chambers tonight, desperately hoping that, whatever it is his cousin wanted to discuss with them, he gets to it soon. The king and Raymond have been eating and drinking for hours now. What remains of the dinner the servants had brought up to the room lay cold on silver plates scattered about the table. Chicken gizzards boiled in stock and red wine and served on toasted bread. Lamb glazed with a sauce infused with garlic, rosemary, and saffron. Cuts of cow tongue, studded with cloves and wrapped in strips of bacon and roasted. A thick stew of beef kidneys, onions, red and white wine, seasoned with pepper and ginger. David cannot stomach it—neither the meat nor the excess of it all.

Raymond lounges on the couch, a bottle of wine in hand while the king leans against his bedpost, throwing red grapes into the air and catching them in his mouth. David sits on a chair he’d dragged near the fireplace, head bowed, hands on his knees, listening to his kingly cousin tell him of the very brilliant plan he’s hatched and can no longer bear to keep secret.

“I’ve completely solved it. You’ll be set for life, David. Acres and acres of land—you won’t be tending it yourself, of course, it’s a ways away, so we’ll leave that to the stewards to handle—but you were never made to farm, were you?” He winks. “And a fresh, young husband for you as part of the deal. Two birds with one stone, wouldn’t you say?”

What David says is, “What?” It’s a low, raspy thing, his voice, made harsh by battle like the rest of him. Once men had fled from the sound of his crazed, bloodthirsty roaring on the battlefield. And then when his vocal cords simply gave out from the strain it’d been the fury in his eyes and the precise, methodical way he cut through flesh and bone that sent soldiers running for their lives. Now people must lean in to hear his rare utterances, must have a fine and sympathetic ear to decipher his hoarse words.

But this one surprised exclamation is apparently either quite clear or the expected response because the king continues, “The paperwork’s already been drawn up, so don’t worry your big, empty head about that. You’ll have a very sizable annual income and a very lovely little virgin to play with whenever you want.”

From the couch, Raymond chimes in, chuckling, “You can only play with a virgin once.”

The king slaps his knee and lets out a bark of laughter. “Ah, true, very true. But you’ll be able to give him a plethora of new experiences, David. The boy was going to be a monk.”

Ignoring Raymond’s cackle, David asks, incredulous, “A monk?”

“Yes, indeed. Youngest one in the family. Destined for a life of piety and austerity, his share of the inheritance going to the monastery. It would have been a pity. Good thing I found out his father’s more eager to secure a place at court in this world than alongside God in the next. His youngest son wedding one of the king’s most favorite cousins? He practically threw in another house. You can summer in it, if you’d like. And they say the boy is quite pretty, besides.”

Raymond sneers. “What, prettiest in a monastery? Of course he would be. His only competition is a bunch of scraggly old men. Virginity won’t be of much boon if you can’t stomach to take it from him. Is his monastery one of the ones that teaches their monks to brew beer, at least?”

The king clucks his tongue, looking thoughtful. “Oh, I never asked. Wouldn’t that be lucky, David?” When David doesn’t deign to answer, he stands up straight, frowning, looking like a petulant child. “Aren’t you happy, cousin? I thought you would be happy. I promised I’d take care of everything for you.”

David ignores him and listens to the crackling of the fire. He should have known something like this would happen. The king is many things—impatient, laid back to the point of carelessness, quick to upset—but he has also always been true to his word and warm to his family. He’d vowed to destroy his kingdom’s enemies and he had, albeit at the cost of thousands of his own people. And he’d sworn that David would be rewarded for his valor in the war, the loyalty and support he’d shown. But David had expected, if anything at all, a mill or a herd of livestock. Something to have to collect passive income, or to just sell or use whenever he saw fit.

But no, his cousin has used his power and influence to pluck a young man meant for the cloth from his home and arrange for him to marry David, who’s no match for anyone. He’s a wreck of a man, only known for his skill at killing, at murder. Would his husband want to hold him, with his body a mess of scar tissue? Could David tell him sweet nothings with his ruined voice? Would he want to be touched with calloused hands that have crushed men’s throats? All this and more awaits the poor former novice. If David does not incite fear he will no doubt incite disgust and pity.

Better to make a deal with a devil or a fae than be owed a debt from a king, David thinks, bitterly. At least with them you knew, from the hundreds of thousands of warnings in the form of folktales and bedtime stories, that you’d be getting the shit end of the bargain when you agreed to their terms. But no one warned you against the determined generosity of your monarch.

The king puts a hand on his shoulder. He looks concerned. They way his brows furrow, how his eyes squint, as if trying to find the root of problem on the surface of David’s face—it’s familiar. He looks like the boy he was all those years ago, long before he was king and when David had adored him. “David,” he says, voice warm and pleading, “You’re the best of men. You deserve this, cousin.”

David says nothing.

Raymond rises from the couch, wine bottle in hand, smiling like a rabid dog. “Leave him be. Can’t you see he’s speechless? Struck dumb by his good luck. To David, and his little monk.” He drains the bottle and smashes it to the ground with a whoop of laughter.

David shrugs off the king’s touch and makes for the door, glass shards crunching underneath his boots.

“To a lifetime of wedded bliss,” Raymond calls.

David grits his teeth and slams the door behind him.


	2. The Novice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All of Diarmuid's brothers try their best to make the news of this arranged marriage business as painless a process as possible.

Diarmuid’s so focused on his work that he doesn’t even notice the riders’ arrival. Copying even the simplest manuscript is an intricate, painstaking process. This one that Diarmuid’s been working on for nearly a month has no frills to it, no colored borders or illuminations, just a transcription of another work written with a neat, precise hand in black ink made from oak galls, and it’s _still_ not much more than a small gathering of parchment.

Yesterday Diarmuid finished writing one page and today, after prayers and chores and more prayers, he’s finally ready and determined to finish ruling another set of parchment by the time dinner is called. It’s probably his least favorite step in the entire endeavor. Soaking calfskin in a mixture of lime and water for days and scraping off the remaining hair and flesh with pumice is somewhat satisfying, as is cutting the dried and stretched skin down to proper size. Diarmuid’s penmanship is often complimented, and he takes pride in how elegant his letters look, but he dearly loves when he’s allowed to delve onto the borders or even dedicate an entire page with colorful inks and detailed designs of flowers and saints and angels wrought in green and red and blue and gold.

But ruling the pages, however important it is for straight, equally spaced letters, is terribly dull and boring and the bane of his existence, and the only way to make sure he doesn’t have to do it again is to do it right and to do it right he has to be so slow and careful with it and _by God_ , he’ll be done with it this evening or he’ll—

“Diarmuid,” one of the monks calls from outside his cell, “The abbot needs to speak with you outside. It’s urgent.”

This seems unfair. He’s right in the middle of important work and he’s fairly certain he hasn’t done anything wrong today. Pouting, David puts a stopper in his inkbottle, cleans his quill, tidies up his desk and makes his way outside.

Blinking away the sunlight and sea-salt air, Diarmuid notices first and foremost that there’s a cart in the middle of the yard and five horses tied up in the stables, which has never in Diarmuid’s lifetime been so crowded. Then he sees the horses’ men, five strangers, all lightly armored, fatigued by travel, and glancing furtively around at the monks moving around them as if unsure as to exactly where they are, what it is they’re looking at, and if they should even be here.

The abbot, standing amongst the strangers, spots him. “Diarmuid,” he says, beckoning him over. The group of men turn toward him. Three, hanging back a little near the cart, their clothing and armor a bit more worn, seem to be—Diarmuid can’t describe it, exactly. Appraising or examining him. One, who looks about his age, meets his gaze and immediately turns an astonishing shade of red. Another one stares at him and then mutters something unintelligible— something about lambs and a wolf’s den—that makes his companion elbow him in the ribs. The other two men who stand closer to the abbot gaze at him with a soft expression that he recognizes because it’s exactly how CIaran looks at him before hugging him or ruffling his hair. But from these two unknown men it’s a bit—but well, no, not exactly, there’s something about them that’s familiar—

One of them, the older of the two with dark blond hair, freckles where his face isn’t covered by a beard, and a wide smile says, “That can’t be—I almost didn’t recognize you at all—you’ve grown so big—“

The other, whose hair is curly and brown not unlike Diarmuid’s, adds, cheekily, “Well, certainly bigger, but not very big. There’s children taller than he is.”

“Diarmuid,” the abbot says, “Why don’t we go for a walk? Your brothers and I have much to discuss with you today.”

Something conciliatory in his tone, along with the two mens’ earnest, expectant smiles, sets Diarmuid on edge. All his brothers are working in and around the monastery, scrubbing the walls, pulling weeds around the crops, or feeding the chickens. Diarmuid opens his mouth to say this, but then he looks at the two men, really looks at them, and long-forgotten memories crawl to the forefront of his mind. Nothing concrete, nothing bright and clear, but bits and pieces of recollections.

Exhilarated delight at being tossed into the air and caught, again and again. Laughter around him as his small hands curiously and none to gently explore the planes of a young man’s face, his nose, his ears and eyelids, babbling all the while. Being fed small slices of different food and bursting into tears at the sour shock of lemon and a spoonful of sweet rice pudding hastily being shoved into his mouth instead.

Diarmuid says, “Oh.” Of course he knows these two men. They’re Tadhg and Eoin, his older brothers. And of course it took him so long to realize this, because the last time he saw them was when he was three, being bundled up for the journey to the monastery, their mother holding back tears as she dressed him. And now nearly seventeen years later they have the temerity to look dejected at his understated reaction.

Tadhg, the blond, bearded one, the eldest of all his siblings, moves toward him. He makes a motion as if to embrace Diarmuid but then appears to think better of it. Instead, he presses his hand to his chest and says, “It’s me, Tadhg. And Eoin’s here, too. It’s so good to see you, Diarmuid. I’ve missed you so much, God’s own truth—“

“What do you want?” Diarmuid asks. “Why are you here?”

The man flinches. Behind him, Eoin shifts awkwardly, kicking at the dirt with his foot. Tadhg looks to the abbot for assistance, but the elderly man ignores him. He places a gentle hand on Diarmuid’s back. “We could take a walk on the beach, the four of us, and talk,” he suggests.

But Diarmuid doesn’t want to show them the beach. The beach is his. His place to walk and think, the sand between his toes and his ankles lapped at by the tide. His place to watch the sea’s mood, be it peaceful and calm alongside a light breeze or wild and violent to match dark, thunderous skies. When he was little Ciaran used to hold his hand when they walked along the shore, tugging him away from the water and closer to his robes, pointing out the pretty seashells as they collected seaweed to dry and grind into medicine. They can show up, these brothers of his, after all these years, but they will not know his life.

Diarmuid rejects the idea. “No,” he says, “No, I don’t want to. We’ll talk right now. Abbot, why are they here?” And when the abbot doesn’t reply, not even to reprimand him for his rudeness to their guests, he knows something is very wrong. His mouth goes dry, his heart beats wildly against his chest. He begins to shiver with anxiety.

Tadhg can’t seem to bring himself to speak. Behind him, Eoin says, “We’re taking you home. Father’s arranged for you to be married. You’ll—you’ll be part of the royal family. The king’s cousin agreed to be your husband. He’s a war hero.” His voice is full of forced cheer.

Diarmuid lets out a little laugh and shakes his head. “Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t _marry_. I’m—I’m a _monk_ —“

When Tadhg finally finds his voice it’s full of barely contained fury, though his ire seems to be directed at the entire situation rather than Diarmuid. “You’re a novice. You haven’t taken your vows yet. The abbot can’t—Father still has the—the ultimate authority, over your life.”

“And—and then my husband will be? This man who I’ve never even—who never even existed to me, before today?” When he looks at the abbot the man’s eyes are full of sympathy. Diarmuid’s vision blurs with tears. “You can’t, you can’t, you can’t, _please_. Everything I have is here. Everyone who loves me is here. Please, don’t—don’t _make_ me—“ He isn’t even sure who it is he’s pleading with. The three men, his brothers’ servants or soldiers, appear sheepish and ashamed. His brothers’ faces blanch, their expressions stricken.

Before the abbot pulls him into his arms, into a warm, protective embrace, Diarmuid sees a look of utter self-loathing bloom across Tadhg’s face. “Diarmuid, don’t cry, please, we’ll look after you, we’ll—“

 _I don’t **know** you_, Diarmuid wants to scream, but instead he mumbles into the abbot’s robes, “Where’s Ciaran? Does he know? I want Ciaran, _please_.”

The abbot rubs his back. His voice is as soft as Diarmuid’s ever heard it. “He knows. He’s praying in the chapel. Go and speak to him.”

Diarmuid rushes off. Tadhg and Eoin begin to follow him, but the abbot stops them. “You will stay with me. He is going to see the man who raised him. You will not disturb them.”

* * *

Diarmuid knows every chip in every stone that makes up every inch of the monastery. The chapel is no exception. When he was a child it was as much a place to play as any other. He’d run his hands along the walls, delighting in how his fingers found the grooves and rough patches in the masonry. When he’d been old enough to attend prayers but too young to seriously take part in them he’d dash in between the monks, grabbing at their belts and prayer beads until Ciaran would snag him by the cowl and keep him still but squirming at his side with a firm, heavy hand on his shoulder.

The man stands now at one of the chapel windows, his eyes closed, his face bathed in sunlight. The sun’s rays highlight his wrinkles, his graying hair. Diarmuid feels himself calm just by looking at him, though his cheeks are still streaked with tears. As he approaches Ciaran pulls him to his side as he did when he was a child.

“I’m praying,” he murmurs. “I am talking to God. Do you know what I’m telling Them?”

“No.”

Ciaran’s hand lightly squeezes Diarmuid’s shoulder. “Oh, I’m telling Them what a fine young man you’ve become, and that I’m thankful to Them for bringing you into my life and for all the joy you’ve given us here.”

Diarmuid chuckles as he wipes his eyes, thinking of the time’s he’s forgotten to close the livestock pens, all the curious, irreverent questions he’s asked, the instances when he’s sent the whole monastery into a panic by running away just so they’d come look for him. “All the irritation, more like.”

“It was a gift to have you, even for a little while.”

Diarmuid nestles into his side. “I thought I had time to wait, still. To take my vows. And now—someone else has chosen my path for me. I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to leave _you_.”

“I certainly wish that you could have stayed by my side for the rest of my days. But come now, you can still write us. I know we taught you how to use a quill, at least. Letters from you would be very welcome. Especially if they happened to coincide with the wine deliveries.”

They share a bout of laughter and then grow quiet, staring at the hills through the window. It won’t take very long to get ready to leave, Diarmuid thinks. All he owns are his robes, his knife, and prayer beads. Everything else in his cell belongs to the monastery—the blankets, the bed, the desk—

 _The manuscript_.

All that hard work. And it was going to be so beautiful when he was done with it. “Who’ll finish my manuscript?” Diarmuid asks. His voice hitches and he blinks back another round of tears. Either possible answer stings—that they can simply replace him with another, or that they can’t possibly finish it without him and the text remains incomplete. Still, selfishly, he hopes for the latter. That his loss, his absence, is at least keenly felt in all the work left unfinished.

Ciaran ruminates on the question as Diarmuid clings to him. Eventually, he says, “I think I’ll suggest to the abbot that we keep it as it, as an example of skillful work to the others, and something that they should strive towards in their own efforts.” And then, as Diarmuid wraps his arms around him and holds him tight, sobbing into the rough cloth of his robes, he says, “Oh, my boy. I do love you so.”

When they finally leave the chapel the rest of the monks are out in the yard, whispering amongst themselves and bringing supplies to the group of men that, when they depart, will have Diarmuid amongst their number. They take the time to gently pat Diarmuid’s head or clap him on the shoulder as he walks by. Tadhg and Eoin and their men are organizing their cart.

“We’re leaving today?” Diarmuid asks. His voice startles them. The young man about Diarmuid’s age drops a crate, his face turning another alarming shade of red when he realizes that Diarmuid saw his clumsiness. He picks it up and stuffs it hastily onto the cart.

Tadhg has a pleading note in his voice. “I wish we could stay the night, Diarmuid, but we have to leave as soon as we can. I’m so sorry. The wedding—“

“What can I help with?” Diarmuid asks. He gestures to the supplies, the horses. The group of men exchange curious, surprised looks.

“No, Diarmuid, it’s all right,” Eoin says. “Just rest in the cart. We’ve cleared a space for you.” And they have: an area just large enough for him to sit comfortably, lined with furs.

It’s awkward to climb up into the cart. Diarmuid lifts his robes up a little to move his legs more freely. The young servant, for some reason, lets out a sigh, while another makes a noise that turns into a hacking cough. Tadhg notices him struggling and helps lift him, hands on his waist, gently pushing him up. He says, idly, “I used to carry you all the time. Do you remember that? I’d throw you up in the air and catch you, too. Used to drive Mother crazy, but you loved it. I suppose that was too long ago, though.”

“No,” Diarmuid says, looking down at him. “I remember that. I remember you.” His eldest brother smiles.

As they pack, Diarmuid settles onto the furs and watches the flurry of activity around him. Eoin and Tadhg are mostly silent except to occasionally direct their servants or speak quietly to each other. The three men talk about the weather, squinting up suspiciously at the sky as if both expecting and daring it to suddenly start pouring rain. From the corner of his eye, Diarmuid can see that the perpetually red-faced young man frequently stops to stare at him and is pushed along by the other two servants. It makes him feel a little self-conscious, to be scrutinized so.

And it brings up something else that has been on his mind. “Tadhg? Eoin?”

They immediately approach the cart. “What do you need, Diarmuid?”

“Who is he? My—my future husband?”

Tadhg sets down the crate he’s holding. His brother says, “The king has two cousins that he favors above all else because they’re his finest warriors. Father’s arranged for you to marry one of them, the Mute.”

“The Mute?” What an odd sobriquet.

Eoin nods. He leans against the cart. “That’s what they call him. David the Mute. Broke his voice on the battlefield, though they say he can still talk. Just not well.”

“He was injured?”

Tadhg shakes his head, frowning. “No, just screamed himself hoarse while butchering men. I was there, for some of the battles. Never seen anything like it.”

Diarmuid’s shock and unease must show on his face, because Eoin gives Tadhg a sharp pinch in the side and glares at him. “But that was during the war. Men are different, in war.”

“I don’t think so,” Tadhg says.

“Well, I don’t care what you think because you’re wrong. We’ve been over this. A man’s not going to treat his spouse the same way he fights an enemy combatant, Tadhg. You’re being ridiculous.”

But their eldest brother is insistent. “In battle you see a man’s true nature.”

“I’m not going to argue with you right now,” Eoin says in a tone that indicates that he’s more than ready and willing to start an argument. Diarmuid’s nerves are fragile enough at the moment; he doesn’t want the journey to be any more tense and awkward than it already will be. And besides, he hasn’t really gotten the information that he wants.

He cuts in, “I mean to ask, will he like me, do you think? Will he—will he be kind to me?” When he thinks about it, that’s the most important thing. The only thing that he hopes for now that the concept of marriage has been brought up.

His brothers exchange glances.

Eoin says, “I’m sorry, Diarmuid. We don’t know him personally, just his reputation on the battlefield. But I don’t think you have to worry—“

He’s interrupted by Tadgh, who scoffs and spits on the grass. “If he isn’t, you must tell me. As soon as you can, any way that you can. Because I don’t care if he’s the king’s cousin or not, I’ll kill him myself, I swear it.”

No one seems to know how to respond to this oath. Diarmuid certainly doesn’t. He lets the conversation lapse into silence, turning over his brothers’ words in his head. There’s a large chance, then, that the only positive aspects about his betrothed are the very things that seem to have swayed his father to agree to the marriage: his status and power through his relationship with the king.

Diarmuid dearly hopes he won’t be cruel, this David. They don’t have to be friends, but it would be nice if they were friendly. Or if they could at least tolerate each other. He’ll do his very best to—to please his husband, but he’ll have to learn how.

There’s some things he can do that would perhaps be useful. He’s been taught to sew well enough to mend clothing. He can bake bread, and catch and gut fish for dinner. He can tend to a garden, if David has one. He’s been told his voice is clear and fine, and if his husband wanted he could read out loud to him, to entertain him. But then, Diarmuid thinks, there won’t be very much interesting he has to say, having spent nearly all his life at an isolated monastery. And he knows no dances at all besides the ones he’s made up while wandering through the forest alone, or any songs that aren’t hymns, and he’s not sure how attractive a figure he’ll make even when out of his black monk’s robes—unlike his brothers, who are tall and strong and even a bit dashing in their armor, Diarmuid is rather slight and delicate. He hopes that his betrothed won’t be too disappointed in him.

Eoin drops a sack onto the cart, startling Diarmuid from his thoughts. His brother winks at him, shoves his hand into the bag, and pulls out a fistful of almonds and dried cherries. He pops a few into his mouth and drops the rest into Diarmuid’s lap.

“Well, this is fine hospitality, though, isn’t it? All this food we’re being sent off with. Fresh baked bread and dried fish and fruits, the rice and herbs. Do you eat like this everyday, Diarmuid?”

Tadhg gently teases him as well. “Got to keep it a secret, eh? Otherwise everyone would be coming out here for the cookery.”

Near the chapel’s entrance are the abbot and Ciaran, standing side by side. Though Ciaran is a head taller than him, the abbot is holding him up, a hand at his back, support against the heavy weight of grief that’s obvious from the pained, mournful expression on Ciaran’s face.

Diarmuid answers Eoin’s question with a sad smile. “No, this is a special occasion.”

This is his farewell.


	3. The Ceremony and Feast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> David meets and weds his husband and tries his best to make Diarmuid's day go well, but their wedding ceremony and the following feast has its ups and downs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're going into the real vaguely historical and vaguely fantasy settings now. The wedding ceremony is just stuff I made up for fun and to try and make it a bit unique. The food at the wedding feast is mainly taken from "Pleyn Delit" once more but it's a variety of medieval foods from a few different centuries as well a few ideas I thought would be neat to include. Also, the forks. People use forks in this here setting.
> 
> This chapter was much harder to write than I thought it would be. I hope you all still enjoy it!

David’s found, in the weeks following the king’s drunken proclamation, that much of his wedding has already been planned and prepared. He suspects that the entire arrangement has been in the works for far longer than his cousin’s let on. If the king hadn’t gotten around to telling him about it when he did, then David might have just woken up one morning with a strange young man in his bed claiming to be his husband.

He frequently wonders about this Diarmuid, this former novice snatched from the safety of his monastery at the behest of not only his king but also his own father. What will he be like? David can safely guess he’ll be pious and well-educated—he’s ordered the castle’s small chapel to be scrubbed and washed and his sizeable library dusted from top to bottom—but he can’t decide on whether the young man will be more angry or sad about his situation and is similarly unsure as to which emotion would be preferable.

And what will he look like? David desperately wants to put a face to the name. Pretty—he keeps hearing pretty. It’s said time and time again, not with the worried insistence of those concerned that a sizeable inheritance might not be enough to make the match a success, but rather as an offhand, factual statement: Diarmuid’s the youngest in the family. He was going to be a monk. He’s pretty.

But David won’t actually see him until the ceremony, when he unveils him. It’s an odd, old tradition of his betrothed’s countrymen. Bad luck, they say, for the couple to see each other beforehand.

“A ploy to get rid of their ugly sons and daughters,” Raymond had declared upon hearing that, “They probably lock the church once the couple’s inside, so neither can feel until they’re bound for life. We’ll see what monster they’ve passed off to you, cousin.”

Diarmuid’s father has sent a number of servants ahead to join David’s household and help assist in the upcoming nuptials. David had hoped that perhaps they might have more information on the young man, but Diarmuid was sent to the monastery at an extremely young age. None of them can give him anything but the vaguest details of a toddler they can barely recall.

One of the maids, a matronly woman who’s taken charge of the castle’s laundry, mentioned that he was “just the sweetest baby. Only ever fussed when he was left alone too long. The lord and lady were worried he wouldn’t learn to walk because Tadhg was always carrying him around.”

Another day David caught a cook’s assistant preparing fennel soup. He hummed as he diced the fennel bulbs and set aside the feathery stalks. When he moved on to cut the onions into rings, he squeezed his eyes shut both to keep them from watering and to think. “He looked like his lady mother. Father’s coloring—brown hair, brown eyes—but his face was all her. A real lady, lovely woman, very kind and very pretty. Broke her heart when the boy was sent off to the monks. Seems a waste of all those years of heartache just to marry him off anyway.” He sighed, dabbed at his eyes, and slid the onions and fennel into a pot with oil and set it over heat. “Forgive me, my lord, for speaking so. I mean no offense.

David shook his head. “No,” he’d rasped, “I agree.”

It’s a shame that Diarmuid’s spent his entire life readying himself for a holy vocation alongside God and now must instead stand across from a broken man and promise himself to him for the rest of his days.

But David can make those days as pleasant as possible. He can still do that. He’s done terrible things with his hands, butchered and savaged and maimed men, torn them apart with his blade and his nails. But he can build a home for this young man, a safe place. He’ll not care for David one bit, with how large and awkward he is, his hoarse, ghost-like voice, wild hair and beard, and body marred by war—how he’s had to uproot and upend everything for him, a mockery of a man—but David will make sure he’ll be comfortable. That Diarmuid will have no need to fear anything or anyone else, at least.

It’s why he’d staunchly refused the king’s suggestion to wear armor to the ceremony. Both his cousin and his arrogant, haughty advisor, Geraldus, had been displeased by this decision, citing pomp and circumstance and perceived disloyalty. But he would not meet Diarmuid as the soldier he once was, as a killer still in his executioner’s garb. Once the war had ended he’d cast it off, all of it—the helmet, the chainmail, the gauntlets and greaves, the sword and shield—and told his men to do what they wanted with it. For all he knew they were still on the shores somewhere, rusting in the sand and sea-salt air.

Rua, the new steward sent to scrutinize David’s home and make sure it was ready not only for the wedding but Diarmuid’s future, had not been bothered by David’s refusal. He’s a small spitfire of a man whose purpose seems to be to manage Diarmuid’s comfort and Diarmuid’s comfort alone and does not suffer fools gladly. He is extraordinary pious, but the hours of his prayers vary day-by-day and yet always seem to coincide when Geraldus starts speaking.

David’s become quite fond of Rua.

At David’s firm rejection at meeting his betrothed clad for war, Rua had waited for the barrage of complaints from the king and Geraldus to subside and then proclaimed it a wise choice on David’s part. It wasn’t the way of Diarmuid’s people. Wearing armor to a wedding courted conflict, be it a physical row between drunken in-laws or spiritual discord between the newlyweds. Bad luck for certain, and very wise of David to choose instead the black velvet shirt and brocade doublet with black trousers and fine new books.

That last bit had been new to David. He’d glanced at Rua, who’d merely shrugged and said, “We have your measurements, my lord.”

David isn’t certain how his measurements were acquired and isn’t certain that he wants to know. Probably the king handed them over to Diarmuid’s family along with any other information they deemed pertinent. The wedding plans have barely involved any of David’s input and absolutely none of Diarmuid’s. At least in this case they’ll meet as equals: utterly bewildered, absolute strangers, bound together by the whims of their families.

* * *

Raymond is extremely unpleasant during normal circumstances but his vitriol has increased with each and every passing day since the king’s revelation of David’s upcoming marriage. Now, at the ostentatious public church that’s full of people and rich tapestries and glittering windows, standing at David’s left, he’s completely unbearable.

He sneers. “They’ve probably trussed up a sheep, this backwoods lot.” He squints at Diarmuid’s family, at their friends and allies, obvious among the other guests with their fine, fashionable clothes coated with ashen handprints and their faces painted in patterns of blue along their lips, their chins, across their brows, done the line of their noses. Rua had told him it was to make them appear as corpselike, with the chill of death on their faces and covered in a funeral pyre’s ashes, and at David’s incredulous look had further explained.

“A wedding’s as much a time to mourn as it is to celebrate. Diarmuid’s old life is over, dead. His new life will be born here today, with his hands in yours.”

This makes David sound like some beast. A monster that’s abducted Diarmuid and carried him away from his loved ones. It’s not too far off, really, but hearing it still stings. He’d muttered, “They never knew him.”

“He’ll be lost to them twice over, then.” Rua had seemed to sense that David felt insulted. “They’ll be rowdy and celebratory at the feast, don’t worry.

But now, before the ceremony, Diarmuid’s immediate family stands as if they’re ghosts. Rua had helpfully pointed them out. The father, a tall, lean man with calculating eyes—but Diarmuid had his brown eyes and hair, the cook’s assistant had said. The siblings are just as tall but more strongly built. The eldest, Tadhg, looks at David like he wants nothing more than to slice open his stomach and strangle him with his entrails. None of the others look any happier. The second brother, Eoin, just looks uncomfortable and uncertain, staring about the church’s painted walls and stained glass windows with confusion. Diarmuid’s two older sisters, Aoife and Cera, share the same sullen, resigned expression. Only Aoife’s baby daughter, Young Aoife, seems content. She’s happily oblivious as she noisily nurses at her mother’s breast while her mother and aunt and uncles all stare daggers at their father, the king, the priest, and David himself.

Finally the church doors open and in come Diarmuid and his attendants.

Behind him, David hears Raymond’s mocking voice. “Ah, there’s your little lamb, cousin. They taught him to walk on his hind legs.”

There are three veiled figures making their way up the church, walking side by side. It’s Diarmuid in the center, David knows, dressed in white, bright as the sun’s rays to chase away any potential curses, any dark, malicious, bitter thoughts. He’s wearing a loose white gown that goes down to his feet with a sash of silk cinched around his waist. White stockings and white slippers peek out from underneath his gown with each tentative step forward.

Diarmuid’s head is bowed. The veil he wears is so long it hides his face and trails onto the ground behind him. Its base material is also white, but the veil has been embroidered with intricate, colorful images and symbols with no particular theme or patter. Rua had told him that the entire family works on this part of the garment, sewing their love and protection into it. There’s numerous flowers sown with blue and green, hawks and sparrows flying across the linen in red, moving in between stalks of golden wheat running from the edge of the veil brushing against the church’s stone floors to Diarmuid’s shoulders. An eye, skillfully and neatly stitched in black from lashes to the pupil, takes up the section that fits the back of Diarmuid’s head. David’s learned that this is the eye of God, all-seeing, all-knowing, and guarding Diarmuid’s back as he steps into his new future.

His attendants, dressed in similar outfits dyed bluish-gray, stand on either side of the young man, there to guide him to David as well as to confuse the spirits—voluntarily putting themselves in danger by dressing as the soon-to-be-wed, ready to distract and take his place should a devil or a rogue attempt to abduct him. They’re supposed to be his greatest friends and allies. Who have they found for Diarmuid? Everyone he had truly known was at the monastery. Now he’s here, surrounded by strangers on all sides, ready and waiting for him to marry another.

Diarmuid’s led up the steps and placed on the same level as David, positioned to face him so that David can unveil him and the attendants can fold and pin his veil to his gown like a cloak. Then the priest can begin his speech, bind them together, and bless their union. David would dearly like to get this all over with. The velvet shirt and brocade doublet he wears are suffocating him, and the amount of unfamiliar faces all crowded together in the church is making him nervous. A few times he’s looked up and seen a horde of soldiers, glowering and waiting for the signal to charge, before rapidly blinking the image away. And there’s still a banquet to sit through.

But by the way Diarmuid’s shoulders shake, how he’s hunched over, and the soft, stifled noises behind the veil—David realizes, horrified, that Diarmuid is crying. He hesitates, arms at his side, but the priest clears his throat and shoots him a meaningful look that plainly says to get on with it.

David lifts the veil.

There’s an audible murmur of shock from the entire church, a gasp rippling down from David’s own attendants standing near him to the guests at the very back of the building. Raymond lets out an undignified squawk of disbelief. They had said—everyone had said Diarmuid was pretty, had stated it with an easy certainty, but now that David sees him he knows that the term does him no justice because Diarmuid isn’t pretty, he’s absolutely _beautiful_.

He has large, bright eyes the color of dark honey. They’re red-rimmed and full of tears that cling to his long lashes. His hair is a mop of brown curls that tumble past his ears. His lips are like fresh, pink flower petals. Freckles dot his pale skin, spread across his face and neck like constellations in the night sky. A poet would write sonnets about the vision standing before them, a painter would immediately dash off to mix a palette to commit his beauty to canvas. But David is no artist. The young man’s wasted on him. David can only be struck dumb by his appearance, swallowing words that he would never manage to choke out in the first place. The only inspiration that hits is a surge of ferocious protectiveness that races through him upon seeing the fright in Diarmuid’s expression.

David doesn’t want to take his eyes off of him lest his betrothed suddenly disappear back into the pages of the fairytale book he came from, and he physically can’t, rendered immobile by uncertainty caused by Diarmuid’s tears. But there’s a flutter of movement and a low, droning sound. Diarmuid’s attendants are quickly arranging his veil into a cloak; he flinches when they pin the brooches to the front of his gown, eyes welling up once more. And the priest had begun to speak as soon as David had slipped the veil back, outright ignoring Diarmuid’s obvious distress. Diarmuid’s eyes flicker from David’s awkward stare to that of the king’s and Raymond’s, who look at him with open-mouthed shock, to their audience of guests, watching the proceedings with similar wide-eyed astonishment.

All except for Diarmuid’s family.

His siblings are furious, Tadhg especially, who now resembles less of a man and more of a snarling dog that’s reached the end of his chain as Eoin and Cera hold onto either of his arms. But Diarmuid’s gaze stops on his father, whose clenched jaw, reddening face, and narrowed eyes are not directed at David but at his distraught son, who take one look at the man and promptly breaks into loud, wracking sobs.

The priest merely raises his voice and continues his sermon. David turns and watches him, bewildered, as the man continues the recitation clearly and precisely as if Diarmuid simply wasn’t shaking with fear, a cascade of tears dripping onto the chapel floor.

This is all too much. The stifling heat of the church, made worse by this strange, grotesque crowd of guests. The two men who stand at his side as his best men who fill him with nothing but rage and disgust. And Diarmuid, who is—who is better and worse than David could have ever imagined. He’d expected contempt, revulsion, or maybe the forlorn acceptance that David himself has felt about the entire matter, but he had not expected Diarmuid to be nearly sick and hysterical from terror. And everyone here—everyone is just willing to let this marriage take place? For what? The king’s capricious impulses? A man’s ambitions? Because they were promised entertainment and a feast? And the priest’s intonation hasn’t changed one bit, as if this is something normal, as if it’s the usual way to have to talk of God’s blessings and greatness amidst the weeping echoing throughout the chapel.

David grits his teeth. This is a nightmare. This isn’t how he wanted this to go at all. This is—

He needs to think. He needs to see to Diarmuid and to do that he needs to be able to think—

“ _Shut up_ ,” he growls. The priest ceases speaking, stunned and outraged. Diarmuid inhales sharply and immediately quiets, staring at the floor like a chastened schoolboy, trembling. David’s heart aches. Fuck—he hadn’t meant—but no, first thing’s first. He turns toward the priest, so close that they’re almost nose-to-nose, speaking slowly so that every word he forces from his throat is understood. “ _You don’t speak again until I give you permission._ ” The man of God nods frantically.

He returns to Diarmuid, approaching him warily. His betrothed is hiccupping softly. David wants nothing more than to give him comfort, but first he needs Diarmuid to look at him. Tentatively, he cups Diarmuid’s soft, tear-streaked face with a rough, massive hand, gently lifting his chin. Diarmuid stills, his lovely, dark eyes as big as saucers, but doesn’t pull away.

David brushes away a tear running along Diarmuid’s cheek with his thumb. “What’s wrong?” he asks. It’s a vague, ridiculous question. Entire volumes can be filled with everything that’s amiss about this arrangement. In the future scholars will argue about what exactly was the worst aspect of it all, from forcing a beautiful young novice from a life dedicated to God to marry a man whose only accomplishments are murdering in Their name, to David threatening the priest conducting the ceremony.

But something in Diarmuid’s expression shifts ever so slightly.

“I’m sorry,” he says, so quietly his words are nearly inaudible, “I’m so sorry. I’m scared.”

David leans in as close as he dares, his mouth next to Diarmuid’s ear, and whispers, wholly and utterly sincere, “So am I. I’m terrified.”

The dazed look that Diarmuid gives him has David worried that he might simply faint from nerves, but then the young man’s entire demeanor transforms.

Diarmuid’s shoulders lose their tension, the color returns to his cheeks, and while tears still cling to his lashes and his eyes are still wet his expression has gone calm, curious. He reaches to brush the hand cupping his jaw with his fingers, leaning into David’s touch.

“Oh,” he says, like he’s realized something extremely important, and David thinks that no, this is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen—the trust on Diarmuid’s face and his tremulous but sweet, hopeful smile. That it’s directed at him.

David swallows. “Can we continue?”

Diarmuid murmurs, “Yes, please.”

The priests seems as though he wants to be insulted a little while longer but is mollified when the couple turns to him and Diarmuid shyly and apologetically looks up at him through his long lashes. David indicates that the priest can once again speak with a curt nod.

“J-just a bit of nerves, was it. It happens, it happens. L-let’s continue on, shall we?”

And so the ceremony continues. When the time comes David takes Diarmuid’s hands in his and waits for the priest to finish blessing their union, tying their wrists together with a white strip of cloth embroidered with ivy—eternal, undying, faithful love—sprinkling their heads with blessed rosewater to baptize them anew. A couple reborn to start their new life together. Because of David’s height the man has to fling the perfumed water over his head. As his nose wrinkles from the strong floral scent he catches Diarmuid biting his lip to keep from laughing. The mirth in his eyes makes David smile.

Then the priest calls for them to seal their newlywed status with a kiss and Diarmuid blanches. His grip on David’s fingers tighten as he stares up at him, anxious. “I-can’t—not in front of—of anyone. Everyone. Please.”

This issue is an easier fix. David places his hands on either side of Diarmuid’s face, pulling him close so that their foreheads touch, the size of his hands blocking out the audience, shielding Diarmuid from everyone’s gaze but David’s.

“Just me, now,” David says. The corners of his husband’s eyes crinkle as he smiles. As he waits for David’s lips upon his he closes his eyes; his lashes brush against David’s face.

Diarmuid’s brow furrows in confusion when David first pecks the tip of his nose, but then David moves down to his mouth and presses their lips together. Diarmuid’s soft and shy and it’s obvious by how he holds his head that he’s inexperienced. Depending on how well guarded the monastery was this might even be his first kiss. But if that’s so, he doesn’t seem to mind sharing the occasion with David. He places his hands flat on David’s chest, and David, in turn, lets his hands drop to his hips.

When they part Diarmuid’s flushed in David’s arms, his eyes heavily lidded, lips parted and wet. “ _Oh_ ,” he says again, but this time it’s a rich, low sound, almost like a moan. David can only stare back, squeezing Diarmuid’s hips.

They’re jarred from the moment by the priest, who clears his throat and addresses the audience. “You have witnessed the creation of this new union. Now you shall watch these men take their first steps together in holy matrimony.”

Diarmuid looks at David once more for guidance. David takes a moment to make sure his husband’s cloak is properly pinned, then links their arms together and begins their slow walk out of the church.

* * *

The great hall of David’s castle is already bustling when they arrive, a flurry of bodies as servants scurry around like ants, carrying plates and bowls and utensils and heaps of food for the tables. There’s still hours left in the day. The sunlight streams thought the windows, keeping the hall bright. Soon the table will be filled with their wedding guests, jostling and crowding about, rowdy and drunk, but hopefully it’ll be more manageable here than at the church. This is David’s home, and eventually the wine casks will run empty and the food will grow cold and everyone will leave, and then he and Diarmuid will finally be able to rest.

Rua leads them to their table at the head of the hall. Usually their families would sit with them, but on the day of the wedding the couple is left alone to more privately share their bliss as well as their meal from the same large, golden platter. All the others will sit at the two long tables in the middle of the hall.

David gives Diarmuid’s hand a squeeze underneath the table and receives another shy smile. They sit and watch the tables fill with various dishes and the seats fill with guests.

“Do you have a garden?” Diarmuid suddenly asks. It takes a moment for David to register that he’s speaking to him.

“No,” he replies, sounding brusque in his surprise.

His husband looks discouraged. “Um, yes. I see. I just wondered. My lord.” He smoothes the creases from his gown and settles his hands in his lap.

David says, a little desperately, “Could have one made. If you like.” Then he adds, “David. You can just call me David.”

The expression on Diarmuid’s face brightens. “Oh, yes, I could—if it’s not too much trouble. I’m, um, adept at gardening. I could grow things. For the household. For you, David.”

David dares to place a reassuring hand on Diarmuid’s knee. “If it’s something you want. It’s no trouble, for you.”

Diarmuid rests his hand on David's and hums.

As the tables are piled high with food, Diarmuid eyes each dish with a mixture of curiosity and confusion. The centerpieces seem to have attracted his attention. There’s a whole roast pig with brown, crisp skin that’s sitting in a rich stew of its own blood and entrails seasoned with vinegar and garlic as if it’s wallowing in mud. A flock of baked ducks with their skin and feathers stitched back on to make them appear alive have been arranged around a pie as though they’re pecking at the crust. Diarmuid stares at a large, tall, rounded gelatin, clear so that the guests may delight over what’s been placed inside: whole, cooked fish, positioned so that they look like they’re swimming in a circle among strategically placed green herbs that stand for seaweed. From what David can see, there’s also a few starfish scattered in the gelatin as well.

Diarmuid frowns. “Will they…serve that? To people?” he asks.

The gelatin especially is more for ornamentation than for actual eating, but if his husband wants to try it David will ask someone to cut him a slice. When he explains this to Diarmuid the young man frantically shakes his head. “No, no, thank you. It just looked, um, interesting.”

But they’ve yet to ask for anything besides wine. It’s dark red and strong, heady stuff, even flavored with spices. Certainly nothing monks would drink at their monastery. After spotting Diarmuid pull a face at the taste of it David requests that their cups be watered down with honey and water.

“Anything you want to try?” David asks.

Diarmuid takes a long drink. “I don’t know. I thought there might be something that’s—that’s more familiar? Like at home—sorry, like at the monastery, I mean. But everything is either, um, I don’t know what it is or it’s so nice looking I don’t even know if I should be eating it.”

David considers this. “What did you eat, at the monastery?”

“Well, oatmeal, for breakfast. Sometimes with salt and dried fish and—and sometimes with honey and fruits. Fresh or dried, depending on the season.” He pauses. “I liked it that way, with the fruit and honey. Cooked apples are the best with it, I think. And then for supper we’d have bread we’d baked that morning with cheese. Dinner was usually stew. Rice, lentil, vegetables and herbs from the garden, with a little bit of fresh milk. I milked the cow—one of the brothers, he claimed the cows didn’t care for him at all, and when I got old enough I took care of them while he supervised. But I never had any trouble with them. They were sweet.”

Milkmaids are supposed to have smooth, clear skin. Maybe that explains Diarmuid’s. David sets this thought aside for another time. From what Diarmuid’s described, he’s been raised on a diet of mainly grains and vegetables. Filling, perhaps, but not very rich. And right now his husband wants something that will make him feel comfortable.

It’s been a while since he’s talked so much. He presses a hand to his throat. “I’ll pick some dishes for you,” David says in his usual rasp, “And you can try a little of each and see what you like.”

Diarmuid blushes. “Oh! Okay. Yes, please. Thank you, my lord. David.”

David looks between the tables and then decides on a few different plates. Chopped beet greens, spinach leaves, and leeks, blanched and then simmered in a light butter sauce and mixed with breadcrumbs. Roasted carrots—red, orange, and purple—dressed with white wine and vinegar and sprinkled with salt, pepper, and chopped parsley and marjoram. And a small bowl of rice broth flavored with almonds, chicken stock, and saffron.

It’s a light fare for a first course but Diarmuid looks pleased when the servant fixes the outside of their shared plate with a bright, colorful array of vegetables and sets a bowl with two ladlefuls of broth in the center. There are spoons, but Diarmuid carefully rolls up the sleeves of his gown and takes the bowl in both hands. After giving it a little sniff, the steam from the broth curling around his face, he brings it to his lips and takes a small sip.

David and the servant watch him run his tongue along his bottom lip and make a delighted sound. “It’s good! Would you like to try some as well, David?” He lifts the bowl to David’s face. When David gently takes it from him and drinks his husband watches him all the while with bright eyes. It’s an aromatic broth, the savoriness of the chicken stock balanced with the sweetness of the almonds and saffron. The rice has absorbed the flavors and gives the broth some body.

Their fingers brush as he passes the bowl back to Diarmuid. “It’s good,” David agrees. They drink the broth like that, handing it back and forth, smiling shyly at one another as the guests’ chatter filters up the hall and around them.

Diarmuid eats with more enthusiasm after that, spearing the carrots and leeks with his fork and popping them into his mouth with satisfied sighs while proffering more to David.

As time passes not only are empty platters taken away but also cooling, half-eaten cuts of meats and partially empty pots of soup and stew, all carted off and replaced with new roasts, pies, tarts, and cakes. Diarmuid watches fretfully as the food disappears into the kitchen. He asks, “They’re not just going to throw everything away, are they?”

With a shake of his head David explains that the leftovers will go first to the servants and then what’s left from that will be distributed among the poor. This only serves to worry his husband more. “Will there be enough for everyone, by then?” It’s an extraordinarily sweet thing to be worried about on one’s wedding day. David tells him that if he’d like, they can have a whole other feast’s worth of food prepared this week, just to hand out to the people. Diarmuid is jubilant at the idea.

For their next course David decides to get a bit more daring. He has their shared plate dotted with cheese tartlets small enough to fit in Diarmuid’s palm and an array of grilled mushrooms. The tartlets prove to be a favorite; his husband practically empties a tray by himself and happily hands more over to David.

And in between each small, savory treat Diarmuid devours a dessert. They share a whole pear poached in red wine, dark and shining on the plate like a large ruby alongside pats of cream. There’s candied violets that melt in their mouths and candied citrus peels that leave Diarmuid’s lips coated in sugar. His husband had said he’d enjoyed apples with his oatmeal so David ventures for a thick, chilled apple pudding cooked with almond milk and cinnamon, cloves, ginger, and nutmeg. He can’t help but preen a little when Diarmuid’s eyes light up after the first spoonful.

However, when they are served cuts of roast beef in a sauce of red wine, garlic, and pepper, thickened with bread, Diarmuid falters.

“Something else?” David asks. There’s a stew with browned goose and onion fried in fat drippings, but in addition to fresh herbs and wine it’s been simmered in beef stock as well. Perhaps the salmon instead, grilled and poached with just salt and plated with sprigs of vinegar soaked parsley. But Diarmuid shakes his head.

“No, it’s fine, it’s just odd. At the monastery we only eat beef when we’re sick and need to get our strength up. And, I’ll tell you now it’s never seasoned as nicely as this. We do have some spices, though. Brother Ciaran’s our herbalist and he—“ Diarmuid breaks off abruptly. His eyes turn downcast. “I mean. He was. He still is the herbalist, I mean. I’m just not there anymore.”

The affection and sadness is obvious in his voice. “You love him a lot,” David says.

Diarmuid sniffles. “Yes, he was—everyone at the monastery raised me, but I was always with Ciaran. When I was small he used to put me on his shoulders and we’d go to the beach, or walk in the forest. And any pretty rocks or shells I found I’d give to him. And then, when I got older, I could talk to him about anything, and it was like—sometimes with the other monks, I could tell they were irritated with some of the questions I asked, but Ciaran always took me seriously no matter how silly it was. He was like—“

“A parent,” David finishes. Diarmuid nods.

His husband’s father is sitting near the king and few other nobles and looks absolutely ecstatic, all the rage gone from his face now that he knows his son’s emotional upset hasn’t derailed the wedding or his plans. Diarmuid had sobbed at the sight of his displeasure, David thinks, a flood of anger and disgust filling him as he watches the man snorting with laughter and he guzzles wine and peels off strips of flesh off chicken of chicken legs with his teeth. His husband had been crying from anxiety beforehand, but it was his father that had sent him into hysterics.

Well, Diarmuid’s father might have a new social circle now, but it’s not one that will include his son and son-in-law. Not if Diarmuid doesn’t want to see him. David certainly doesn’t.

He doesn’t want to see the king or Raymond, either, but as the rest of the guests focus on the musicians and bard, clapping along to a fast, upbeat tune, David’s two cousins come make their way to their table.

“Here’s the happy couple,” the king says in a singsong voice. He’s three sheets to the wind. His words are still clear but he’s swaying ever so slightly, using Raymond to hold himself up. He smiles at Diarmuid. “God, but aren’t you a gorgeous little thing. We heard you were, but not to such an extent. If I’d known I might have married you myself. What say you, Raymond?”

Raymond pulls his lips back into a something resembling a smile. His eyes rove over Diarmuid's figure. “A very fine husband you’ve found for the Mute.”

Diarmuid fidgets. “Um. Thank you, Your Majesty? Lord de Merville?”

David bites back a snarl. He addresses the king, voice guttural. “Just here to congratulate us?”

The king’s smile grows wider. He jabs a finger at David, nearly toppling over his empty cup. “See, right there. Always to business. Always keeping me on track. It’s why I—“ He hiccups. “Oof, think I’m pickling as we speak. But, David, it’s important. Need to talk to you. Not tonight, though, it’s your wedding and you need to enjoy something for once in your life. Tomorrow, the day after. Just soon.”

“Soon,” David agrees. The king pushes himself from Raymond and totters back to his seat, loudly calling for more wine and another song from the bard.

David sighs and motions for a servant to refill both his and Diarmuid’s cup. They’ve both been drinking the same concoction that at this point is less watered down wine and more just fresh water sweetened with fruits and honey and a dash of fermented grapes. Diarmuid holds out his goblet and sincerely thanks the serving boy, who’s so busy staring at his face he nearly overfills the vessel. Diarmuid watches him depart with a curious look on his face.

Raymond leers at the young man. “I see. Plying him now so you can plow him later. A wise strategy.” As he laughs Diarmuid shrinks into his seat, face red from shame and embarrassment, blinking rapidly. “Congratulations, cousin. Enjoy your first rut with your little lamb tonight.”

Goddamn this man and every vile breath he takes to spew shit from his mouth. David does snarl this time but Raymond just walks off, still chuckling to himself. He reaches for Diarmuid’s hand and tries to explain that nothing, _nothing_ will happen tonight but a good night’s sleep, but his husband shies away from him, his face burning.

“I’m—I’m sorry, my lord,” Diarmuid mumbles. He brings his goblet to his lips with trembling hands and drains it.

What does Diarmuid have to apologize about? It’s Raymond who’s at fault, the bastard. And does his husband now think all of David’s attempts at kindness and comfort were just a way to ease him into bed? The thought makes him nauseous. He stares down at their shared plate, where the cuts of beef remain half-eaten, an array of cooked flesh swimming in a sauce dark and red like blood.

It’s so hot and loud in these halls, now. The mixture of the instruments, the singing, the laughter and shouting and the loud, drunken conversations that are dangerously close to turning into loud, drunken arguments. The room thrums with noise and restless bodies, and to David’s consternation they’re brought to his and Diarmuid’s table as more guests follow his cousins’ lead and come to congratulate their marriage and gawk at his husband.

The men and women that greet them are handsome and charming in their finery. It’s odd, how comfortable they seem. David’s sprinted in full armor, but right now his doublet seems heavier than anything and his velvet shirt irritating his skin.

Are they still feeding the fires in the kitchens? How can it be getting so much hotter, still? His vision blurs—sweat’s dripped into his eyes. He wipes his hand across his face.

Diarmuid—is Diarmuid well? His clothes are so heavy, he must be overheating—

But when David refocuses Diarmuid’s handing back Young Aoife to his sister, delight written across his features. All of his husband’s siblings stand there like a shield wall, looming over them.

“You seem in much better spirits than this morning, darling,” says Cera.

Diarmuid’s smile falters. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to—to cause such a scene. But, I—Father—“ He stops. David tries to remember where his father-in-law is seated. He can’t see around the group of siblings and it’d be too inconspicuous to crane his head. He can hear the cacophony of the crowd, though, all of the shrieks and cries and clatters and bugles and stamping of feet and screaming.

Eoin clears his throat. “Well, the two of you seem to be getting along well enough.”

“Oh, um, yes. I think we are.“

“Just remember what I told you,” Tadhg says. He’s addressing his youngest brother but his eyes are boring into the David’s. “As soon as you can—“

“ _Tadhg_!”

David shakes his head. He wishes they would all just be quiet, just for a moment. They’re far too loud, their voices like a beacon even among all this chaos. Where is the exit? Is it clear? They’ve been overrun, how did he not notice, and he’s unarmored and without even a blade—

“My lord? My lord! _David_!” He blinks, slowly, and there’s Diarmuid’s face in front of his, Diarmuid holding him steady this time, his small hands holding onto either side of his head, his eyes full of concern. “You’re all sweaty and shaking. Are you okay? Water, can someone get—oh, thank you!” Diarmuid grabs a pitcher from a servant and carefully fills David’s goblet.

The water’s fresh and cold and clears David’s head enough that he tells Diarmuid, “We’re leaving.”

His husband frowns. “To where?”

“To bed,” David states, ignoring the tiny squeak his husband makes and Tadhg’s hiss. He’s exhausted and still shaking in spite of himself. Let all these people empty his cellar and larders. They can even take the plates and the bowls and the cutlery. But in their bedroom is a goose down mattress, fur blankets, and blessed silence. He stands—too fast, because it sends his head spinning—grabs Diarmuid’s hand, and pushes through the siblings, who look equally panicked and angry, and abruptly shoves past a startled, concerned Rua. The crowd parts around them. People take one glance at David’s dark expression and scramble to move out of his way.

The king spots them and raises his goblet, splashing wine onto the floor. “Ah, well, eager to get to know one another, aren’t they? To wedded bliss!” There’s scattered laughter and applause but David clenches his jaw and simply leaves it behind them. This day has been miserable and infuriating and wonderful and he’s tired of it. He wants nothing more to sleep and wake and find it over.

Out of the hall and up the stairs they go. Here and there a maid bows low as they rush by. Diarmuid is silent. The only noise reverberating around the stones are David’s heavy steps and the rustling of Diarmuid’s gown and cloak.

When they get to their bedchamber David finally lets go of his husband’s hand and locks the door behind them.

The room has been prepared for them. The bed is neat and tidy, a number of fresh towels are on a table in the corner along with a basin of fresh water, and there’s two more bottles of wine on the nightstand. David considers throwing them out the window. Instead, he kicks off his boots and shucks off his doublet and his shirt, leaving them in all in a pile on the floor. The water in the basin is cold; he places his hands in it, makes a cup with him palms, and splashes his face, droplets running into his beard and down his neck.

His heart’s still racing, but it’s quiet and familiar and he can finally _breathe_. Head bowed, leaning over the table, nails digging into the wood, David inhales and exhales in slow, shuddering breaths until he feels his pulse calm and his body lose its tension. His thoughts are no longer panicked bursts of alarm, screaming at him the potential danger in every face and every corner. Now, here, it’s just him and—

 _Diarmuid_.

David whirls around. There, sitting on the edge of the bed, his hands in his lap and fingers laced together, wide eyed and shivering, is Diarmuid, still in his white gown, his white stockings and white slippers, his white cloak with all its colorful, embroidered protective symbols.

He glances from the locked door to David’s bare chest and then meets David’s gaze.

“W-what would you have me do?” his husband asks.


	4. The Wedding Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diarmuid and David have an important discussion about their expectations and feelings. Both are pleased to learn that they want to make this work. They spend an enjoyable night together and are eager to start a new day but are interrupted by the king's plans once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A chapter that I started and rewrote and rewrote some more until we're here. I'm pretty pleased with the result, so I hope you all like it as well.

Throughout Diarmuid’s years at the monastery there had been a few visitors around his age that, once they were safely in the woods and hidden away from the monks’ prying eyes, had boldly declared their intentions to him. Sometimes there were offers to spirit him away from what they believed would be a long, dreary life of contemplation and devotion to God. But all had wanted to touch him and for him to touch them in return.

He remembers quick, furtive kisses and clumsy hands roaming over his robes and while it had been not unpleasant he had always been quite bewildered. Perhaps because he’d taken part more out of honest curiosity than genuine attraction, though some of the young men might have been considered good-looking. At the time Diarmuid had met very few other people; he had no one to compare them to but one another.

The merchant’s son, blond and self-confident and who’d liked to try and reach underneath Diarmuid’s robes as they kissed. The woodsman’s nephew, tall and lean and as shy and uncertain as he was. The traveling bard, a few years older than Diarmuid had been at the time, who’d ignored his lips completely to—strangely—suck at his neck. Ciaran had found them just off the path and, with more strength and fury than Diarmuid had ever seen from him before, hauled the man off of him, sending him fleeing down the road. Afterwards, he’d sternly warned Diarmuid about the nefarious intentions of strangers.

Not a single one of those young men looked anything like David does now, bare-chested and broad with rivulets of water running down his collarbones to his stomach. He’s just so _big_ , his eyes and hair so dark, and there’ll be _more_ of him to see once he takes off his boots and pants. That _all_ of him is soon going to be in bed with Diarmuid has him, for the first time, burning with heat but also trembling with fear.

Diarmuid knows, vaguely, about what is expected of him this night. That he and David are to consummate the union of their marriage by becoming one. The exact details and logistics of it, however, remain a mystery to him. He wishes now that he’d done more with the young men who’d visited the monastery—he’d have a better idea of what is to come and would be more skilled at pleasing his husband besides.

In the week before the wedding Diarmuid had tried his hand at research in his family’s library. There’d been only irrelevant medical texts—nothing about sexual intercourse but quite a bit on treating bee stings, which was interesting, and a few entries about breastfeeding, which he’d passed on to Aoife—and a few erotic tales that were scanty on all details except for a running theme of abduction, ravishment and initial pain, burning, and tears that turned into pleasure and rapturous cries after enough thrusts.

That wouldn’t be—that wouldn’t be _so_ bad, he supposes. If it eventually feels good. But the question of how David will _fit_ along with a lingering concern about the pain still has him shaking. It has to work, plenty of people have done it and seem to enjoy it and yet—Surely if he just asks his husband to be gentle with him?

David finally turns his attention back to Diarmuid, chest heaving, staring at him in surprise, his eyes wide. Diarmuid shifts nervously on the bed. Maybe he was supposed to have already undressed. But one of the maids had told him that husbands preferred to do that themselves. He should’ve mined her for details. She seemed to know what she was talking about.

What position is he supposed to be in—on his back or on his front? Or maybe something else? Will they be here all night? How many times can a man— _enjoy_ himself? What will David’s body look like, naked? Will he be pleased with Diarmuid’s? What if he doesn’t find Diarmuid appealing at all? Would that be better or worse than David roughly taking him well into the morning? But, no, the kiss—David was so sweet when they kissed and so attentive at the banquet. His cousin, though, Raymond de Merville—what he’d said—was that true? Was his husband just trying making it easier to—to have relations with him? David had been so upset at what the man had said and yet had all but dragged Diarmuid up to their bedchambers. If he begged his husband to just let them sleep tonight would he be angry? Surely he’d be disappointed. Diarmuid doesn’t think David would force him but—but people are different, behind closed doors.

His gaze flits to the bedchamber’s locked door and then to David’s naked chest and then to David’s face. “W-what would you have me do?” he asks.

His husband just stares at him. When David finally speaks his voice sounds like his throat has been scraped raw. “ _Nothing_.”

Ah, right. That’s—Diarmuid should just lie back and—and let David—he fiddles with the brooches keeping his cloak pinned to his gown. It should be easy enough to simply unpin them but his hands are trembling. “Of—of course, my lord. Just, please. Please, be gentle, I haven’t ever—I know a bit, but I’ve never actually—“ To his horror and embarrassment, he begins to tear up again. “I’m—I’m so sorry, I’m nervous.”

But as he lets the cloak fall from his shoulders and hesitantly tugs at the red sash of silk around his gown David scrambles forward and stops him. “No, Diarmuid,” he rasps, “Nothing, we’ll do _nothing._ Sleep in the bed. I’ll take the floor.”

There’s a part of him that sighs in relief at this answer. That nothing will happen tonight. But there’s another part of him that’s stung by this rejection.

He blinks back more tears. “Am I not—to your liking?” Or perhaps it’s his inexperience that’s turned David off. That would make sense. His husband is older than him, cousin to the king, and a great warrior. Surely he’s had prettier and more skilled lovers than Diarmuid. He wipes his eyes. “I can learn,” he says, sniffling, “I can please you, if you show me how. I promise. I can be a good husband to you.”

David kneels at his feet, almost as if in prayer, so that Diarmuid has to gaze down at him. His eyes are so dark and gentle and full of reverence.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, and Diarmuid’s heart flutters, “But nothing will happen between us unless you want it to. Never, if you choose.”

“But—don’t _you_ want to—“

“I want you to be happy here. As happy as I can make you.” He pauses, apparently searching for the right words. Then, bluntly, he states, “We don’t have to have sex. It doesn’t matter to me. I will _never_ force you. I only want what you’re willing to give me.” He reaches for Diarmuid’s hands and holds them in his own. “Nothing else.”

Diarmuid cannot stop his voice from quavering. “I—I _do_ want you. Really. But I don’t know when I can—But I know that I don’t want to, tonight. Please. I’m tired and I don’t—I don’t think I can—“

“Of course,” David says. He rubs Diarmuid’s hands with his rough, calloused ones. There is honest affection in his gaze.

Diarmuid bites his lip. “Can I still kiss you?”

“You don’t need to ask to do that.”

“Okay.” He leans down and presses his lips to his husband’s forehead. How silly of him to think that David would do anything to hurt him. David’s been on his side since he stepped into the church. He is kind and handsome and—and now that the threat of consummation has been removed, Diarmuid would still actually like to share _some_ part of himself with his new husband. “Will you undress me?”

“Diarmuid—“

“I want it. I want you to see me, and I want to see you as well. But—but nothing else. I just want to hold you and talk and kiss.” He hesitates. “Is that okay? Can we do that?”

David asks, “You’re certain?”

“Yes. I’m certain.”

The cloak is already unpinned; his husband removes it from the sheets, folds it, and sets in on the desk. Then he takes off his boots. As he does this, Diarmuid lets his slippers fall to the floor. They’re so thin and soft they don’t make a sound.

David gently pulls him up so that they’re standing face-to-face. For a moment they merely gaze at one another, hand-in-hand, and then David kisses his nose again, just like at the altar, and reaches for the sash cinched around his waist. It pools onto the carpet, a puddle of red silk. The gown loosens. David simply slips it down his shoulders. Diarmuid frees his arms and lets the fabric drop to his feet. He’s now completely bare except for his white stockings that run to his mid-thigh. The bedroom isn’t cold but he shivers at having his skin so suddenly exposed to the air.

He chances a glance at David, looking up at him through his eyelashes. His husband is watching him with the same expression that he’s had on his face all day whenever he’s looked at Diarmuid: with a bit of wonder and overwhelming gentleness.

“There you are,” he says in his lovely, low, gravelly voice. It makes Diarmuid smile. He wants to hold him, to kiss him again, but first—

He places his hands on David’s hips. “I want to see you,” he says with more confidence. He tugs lightly at the black pants. “Can I?”

David looks conflicted, brow furrowed, a frown on his face. But then, finally, he nods.

“Okay,” Diarmuid murmurs. He unties David’s laces, slowly, carefully, then tugs the pants down. David helps. He steps out of them, revealing his large, muscled thighs and the hair between his legs and his member.

It’s curious—Diarmuid had expected to combust from embarrassment or cry with terror once he saw his husband naked for the first time. But here, looking at the whole of him—still tall and broad, every bit of him just so _large_ , and all crisscrossed with scars, a light flush running up his chest and neck to his face as Diarmuid stares—he’s positively fascinated. It hasn’t changed anything, the lack of clothing. He’s still David. He’s still the same man who protected him this very morning, comforted him and shielded him from his fears and from the strangers in the church, the man who’d brushed his tears away at the altar and kissed him so gently, the man who’d sent apple pudding to their table because Diarmuid had mentioned that he’d liked cooked apples in his oatmeal.

The man standing in front of him is his husband. They will get to know each other better, but Diarmuid knows David now, and he is a good man.

He smiles and embraces him, burying himself in David’s chest when man pulls him closer, tighter, and runs his hand through his hair and along his neck and rubs his back in slow, soothing circles.

“Here I am,” Diarmuid says.

They eventually move into the bed, wrapped up in fur blankets and one another’s arms. His husband’s fingers trace idle patterns along Diarmuid’s hip as he rests his head on David’s chest. There’s still revelry in the great hall. He can hear the distant music and dancing below. But here, in their bedchamber, it’s just him and David and the sound of David’s heartbeat and the feeling of David’s lips as he kisses the top of his head and pulls him closer.

David asks, “Will you tell me about the monastery?”

“What do you want to know?”

“Anything. Everything.” He pauses. “Tell me about Ciaran, or your gardens, or just your days there.”

Diarmuid doesn’t think he can talk about Ciaran yet without crying, and the gardens aren’t particularly exciting even if David says he’s interested in hearing about them. He hums a little, thinking, and then begins, “It was built near a beach. The monastery. Anytime I could, I liked to walk down it. Sometimes I had to collect seaweed, for medicine or few stews. Other times I offered to fish. But most of the time it was where I went when I had spare time.”

“What did you like about it?”

“The sand under my feet. The smell of the sea. How vast it was. Sometimes I’d just sit and watch the waves and think about all ships and boats on the water and all the creatures underneath it. How they’re all there, on that expanse, but I couldn’t see them from where I was. I just always thought that was—“ He tries to hold back a yawn and fails. “Sorry—that it’s amazing.”

David seems just as exhausted, though. His words come out slow and a little muddled. “Did anyone ever visit, by boat?”

“Oh, I hoped! It would have been so exciting! But no, never. I saw whales, sometimes, in the distance. The first time I ever saw them I called everyone out of the monastery to look at them—all the brothers must’ve seen them for years and years beforehand, but they all indulged me. It was fun…”

They fall asleep like that, holding each other, drifting off to the sound of Diarmuid’s memories given voice.

* * *

He’s awake well before the sun rises. It’s a habit was ingrained in him at the monastery. Once he was old enough to stand for early morning prayers Ciaran would gently shake him awake and lead him, yawning and bleary eyed, to the church where they and the rest of the monks huddled together and sang, their voices entwined into a melodic thrum of devotion to God.

Now Diarmuid slowly opens his eyes and finds himself not in his cell, curled up on his straw-stuffed mattress and coarse blanket, but laying on a large, soft bed, wrapped in warm furs with strong, muscular arms circled around him.

 _David_.

They’re pressed so close that though the room is still dark Diarmuid can see the outline of his husband’s face, his features. His brows are furrowed; he’s serious even while he sleeps. Diarmuid watches his body rise and fall with each breath he takes. When he leans in and kisses David on the cheek his face loses some of its tension. He snuggles back into David’s arms and just listens to him breathe for a little while.

Sometime later there’s a tentative knock on the door. Diarmuid glances at David, who's still sleeping soundly, before crawling from the bed.

He pulls on David’s discarded black velvet shirt and answers the door. It’s one of the servants, clearly expecting David from his straight, stiff posture and how he first stares directly above Diarmuid’s head.

“My Lord, I—“ The man stops in confusion. Then his eyes drift down to Diarmuid and his face goes beet red. He splutters apologies. Diarmuid feels his own face grow warm. What a sorry sight he must be, hair mussed from sleep and clad only in an oversized shirt and white stockings—not very becoming for a great lord’s husband.

Self-consciously tugging the shirt down, Diarmuid asks, “Yes, sir?”

He remembers a moment too late that he’s not supposed to refer to the servants as “sir” or “ma’am,” or, according to his father, even by their own name. They’re to be talked at and not talked to. But, well, Diarmuid had referred to everyone who visited the monastery as by those titles. If they were really nobles they found his attempts at social graces charming and gently corrected him. If they weren’t aristocratic at all they always found his attempts at politeness amusing.

But this man instead stares at him, red-faced and wide-eyed. Perhaps here, to the people working in the castle, it’s a rude thing after all. He’ll have to ask David after he figures out what the man at the door wants. “Um, is—do you need my husband? I can get him—“

The servant shakes his head frantically. “No, no! Forgive me, my lord, I did not mean to, ah, interrupt. I merely intended to find out if either of you were in need of anything. Breakfast, perhaps? We could have something sent up from the kitchens.”

“Oh, we could eat in the bedroom?” Diarmuid asks. The man nods. What a surprise! Diarmuid had thought they would have to eat in the great hall again. Was that what the small table in the middle of the room was for? “That would be lovely, thank you very much. If it’s not too much trouble, could I also get, um, some clothes and hot water for a bath? Enough for myself and my husband, please.”

At the mention of clothing the man glances down at Diarmuid’s stockings and then immediately stares straight ahead. “Yes, of course."

“Thank you,” Diarmuid says again.

Once back inside the room Diarmuid opens the curtains, just a little, to let some sunlight seep into their bedchamber. He carefully crawls back onto the bed so as not to wake David and lays down at his side.

His husband wakes soon after, blinking away the sleep and squinting at the sunlight. When he sees Diarmuid looking at him he smiles and reaches to him for a kiss, which Diarmuid happily provides.

“Did you sleep well?” he asks.

David rubs his eyes and grunts in affirmation. Then he seems to really look at Diarmuid. “What—is that my shirt?”

“Oh, yes. I’m sorry, I put it on to answer the door.”

His husband opens his mouth to speak, face taking on the same red color as the servant, but is interrupted by another knock on the door. Diarmuid leaps up. “That must be breakfast! I asked for water for a bath, too. Here, I’ll—ah!” He yelps as David grabs him and pulls him back down into the bed, covering him up to the chest with blankets. He looks a little frazzled.

“Enter,” David barks as the knock on the door becomes more insistent and Diarmuid squirms in his arms.

The servants lay new sets of clothes on their bed with low bows, studiously avoiding looking at either him or David. Another pulls aside the curtain in the corner of the room that leads to another small space that contains the bathtub. Steady streams of men haul buckets of boiling water to pour into it. After setting breakfast on the table the servants file out another set of low bows, except for the very last to leave, a younger man who shuts the door with a grin and says, “Hope you continue to enjoy yourselves, my lords.”

Diarmuid thinks that’s very kind of him to say, but David flushes and grumbles as he finally lets Diarmuid up, mumbling something that sounds like, “Wise-ass.” As David searches for his pants lying crumpled on the floor, Diarmuid dives into their breakfast.

There’s a loaf of freshly baked white bread with a large slab of butter that’s pressed into the shape of a hen—which delights Diarmuid to no end. There’s also scrambled eggs flavored with herbs and slices of melon sprinkled with salt to bring out its sweetness. To drink there’s tea, floral and sweetened with honey, and Diarmuid’s especially glad for that because he doesn’t think he can stomach any more wine after last night.

He slathers the bread with butter and devours slice after slice. It’s so much softer than the brown bread they baked at the monastery. David, he notices, eats with much more enthusiasm than he did at their banquet. In between bites he reaches under the table and affectionately pats Diarmuid’s thigh.

His husband insists that he enjoy the bath by himself while he sets about cleaning their bedchamber—clearing the plates and getting rid of the towels and the wine bottles left for their wedding night. A bit disappointing, but there’s still tonight, and Diarmuid has never had the chance for a bath quite as luxurious as this, so he complies without too much complaint.

The tub takes up most of the space in the small adjoining room. Diarmuid thinks it could probably fit three people. It would most certainly have room for both him and David with a little wiggle room. At the monastery he’d only washed with lukewarm buckets of water and a rag and harsh, handmade soap that left his skin pink. The tub, he notices, is made of stone. Does the material keep the water hot for a longer period of time? The rest of the room is made up of shelves filled with stacks of white soap carved with pretty patterns and various scented oils that don’t seem to have been used much at all. Diarmuid sniffs at one and finds it _warm_ , like cinnamon and black pepper and sandalwood and something pleasant and heated that he can’t quite place.

After placing a few drops into the water he takes off David’s shirt and peels off his stockings and cautiously lowers himself into the tub. It’s like nothing that he’s experienced before. The hot water feels like it goes past his skin and seeps into his bones, releasing everything little ache and tension he’s held. It might be unseemly, but he can’t help but release a loud moan of pleasure.

Outside of the room he hears a crash that sounds suspiciously like plates clattering to the floor. “David? Are you alright?”

“Fine,” his husband answers, voice hoarse.

“Do you need me?” Diarmuid asks. Upon hearing David vehemently state that _no, he’s perfectly fine_ and _stay where you are_ he settles back into the bath. He feels a bit like he’s steeping himself in tea with this nice, hot water all scented with spices. The thought makes him giggle.

When he’s done he realizes that he’s forgotten both the towels and his clean new clothes. He steps out of the water, shuddering with the sudden chill, and pads to the curtain, absolutely soaked and dripping. “David? Can I have a towel, please?” In an instant the curtain is brushed aside and his husband stands there, offering the towel with the care and pride of someone presenting some long lost treasure back to its owner.

“Thank you,” Diarmuid says. Then he notices David staring at him with an indecisive expression. “What is it?”

“Can I kiss you?” he asks.

Diarmuid flushes with delight. “You don’t have to ask me to do that, either,” he replies, leaning in for another kiss. David’s hands feel especially nice and rough now that Diarmuid’s skin is soft from his bath, and he must’ve made a good choice with the scented oil because his husband seems to greatly enjoying it. He presses his face into the crook of Diarmuid’s neck and inhales and sighs.

Diarmuid suddenly recalls the traveling bard. He’d pressed his mouth against his neck and sucked and bit and at the time Diarmuid had been utterly confused by it but now he suddenly imagines David’s teeth against his throat and _oh_ , that—that would be—

A clamoring and series of raised voices outside the bedchamber door is all the warning they get before the king bursts into their room, bags under his eye and clothing disarrayed but as utterly cheerful as he always seems to be. “Good morning, cousin!”

Diarmuid cries out in shock and covers himself with the towel. David growls, “ _Fucking_ _hell_ ,” and shoves Diarmuid back behind the curtain. He stands guard in front on it, his body blocking the entryway.

Blushing furiously, Diarmuid dries himself off. He doesn’t think that the king saw him, but even so…

The cotton towel is quickly damp. It’s a bit cold and uncomfortable as he wraps it around himself. The new clothes are still neatly folded on the bed, and he’s trapped in this small room until the king leaves. He leans against the tub and stares at the floor, a pattern of mosaic tiles in the shape of a bright sun, with yellow and orange and red rays. David’s voice carries past the curtains and reverberates inside the room. He’s positively snarling.

“ _Out_ ,” he growls.

The king sounds unfazed. “Right you are, David, we need to go out. We’ve important things to talk about today.”

“Get out of this room,” David clarifies, “King or cousin, you don’t just barge into my bedchamber unannounced. My husband was still getting dressed.”

There is a long pause. The king, to his credit, seems abashed. “Ah, well. I thought—forgive me, David. I didn’t mean—But, well, now that I’m here. They’ve told me you’ve eaten breakfast and have a bath ready. Good! Because I’ve got a treat planned for the two of you. A royal hunt! And after we eat our fill of venison and pheasant you and I will have a nice long talk, David, because it’s very important that we do.” Something desperate creeps into his voice. “Please, cousin.”

David sighs. “We’ll get ready. Now, _out_.”

The smile in the king’s voice is audible. “Fantastic. Out I go. I may be the king, but it is _your_ castle, after all.” He adds, cheekily, “Glad to see that the newly wedded couple’s had a very successful night.” The door does not close but slams shut.

His husband brushes the curtains back, Diarmuid’s new set of clothes in hand. “I’m sorry. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Diarmuid says.

The shirt is made of dark blue silk and cut to reveal a bit of his shoulders and his collarbone. It hangs off of him not unlike David’s black velvet shirt. The pants he shimmies into. It still feels odd to wear them, after a lifetime of running around in long robes. They’re tight, constraining. But he supposes he’ll get used to them.

When he makes his way back into the bedroom David is sitting on their bed, already dressed and frowning. “That won’t happen again, Diarmuid.”

Diarmuid bites his lip. “I’m fine, I promise. But, what the king said, about hunting. I don’t know how. Will I embarrass you?”

His husband shakes his head. “Never. It’ll probably be very boring for you, in fact.”

He considers this. “You’ll be by my side, though, right?”

“Yes.”

Diarmuid feels cheered by that. “Well, then it won’t be boring. I’ll do my best.”

A royal hunt—not how he imagined how he’d spend the day after his wedding. He can catch and gut fish and as well as snare and skin rabbits, and he’s not unfamiliar with caring for livestock, but a hunt is quite beyond him. But if David’s there, then what could go wrong?


	5. A Royal Hunt and a Royal Hart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought that the wedding chapter would be the longest in this story, but this one's a bit longer. It was also difficult for me to write, because this chapter sets up quite a few important points for later chapters. But I'm pretty pleased with the result.
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoy!

The morning’s still early but the hunt will go well into the afternoon. Whatever they catch tonight will be the main course at dinner. A stag, surely—not even the king would be stupid enough to allow Diarmuid on a hunt for a boar, or, God forbid, a bear. David helps Diarmuid pull on a new pair of boots—not ideal, because breaking them in will have his feet sore well before the day is over, especially if they end up having to follow the beast on foot.

His husband looks down at him with his large, dark eyes. “David?” he asks.

“Mm?” David carefully rolls up the legs of his pants. They’re too fine for hunting, really, and he wants Diarmuid’s clothing to remain as neat and clean as possible.

Diarmuid worries his lip. “Can I still pray?”

David jerks his head up, startled. “What?”

“Before the hunt—do I still have time to pray? That’s what I do—always did—in the mornings.”

He stands to give Diarmuid a kiss on the forehead, enjoying the way his husband’s eyes flutter closed and the soft sigh of satisfaction that escapes him when David’s lips touch his skin. “Of course,” he replies. The true hunt will not start for a while; at the moment at most everyone will be at the assembly, eating and talking. But even if they have to wait for Diarmuid, so be it. This is his home, and the hunt is, ostensibly, for him and David. “Rua will show you to the chapel.”

Diarmuid frowns. “You’re not going to come with me?”

David freezes. How can he tell his husband that he hasn’t set foot in his own chapel since the day he arrived back from the war for fear it would simply spit him out into the hall? That even when he's been overcome and begged God for Their forgiveness in the safety of his bedroom, behind his silent, desperate prayers are the familiar sounds of the battlefield, his own screams, and the cries of the dead and dying around him, mocking him for ever thinking that he was fighting in God’s name. That They would have ever extolled him for the violence and bloodshed that he wrought.

But Diarmuid, having been raised in a monastery and its serene silence, must be skilled at interpreting facial expressions. He stares at David’s panicked, guilt-stricken face, and takes his hands in his and says, gently, “Then I will just pray for you, husband,” before giving him a peck on the cheek.

Pure bliss and adoration blossoms in David’s chest. It cannot possibly last, this overwhelming tenderness that Diarmuid feels for him, this joy and calm that seems to come from being in David’s presence, from touching him. But he is selfish, always selfish, and so he will take whatever affection Diarmuid deigns to give him and give all that he can and more in return. Before Diarmuid can walk out of their bedroom David grabs him by the waist and pulls him in for a proper kiss, like two lovers should share, like at their wedding, when Diarmuid all but melted against him, warm and soft in his arms. When they pull apart his husband’s blush has spread from his face down to his collarbones.

“I’d like to meet with our stable master and huntswoman before this all starts,” David says, squeezing Diarmuid’s hips, “If I prepare your horse for you, would you be able to meet me at the field near the forest?”

His husband looks a little dazed but nods at his question. “Oh, yes! Of course, David. I know where the stables are. And I can ride a little bit. Don’t worry.”

They share one last kiss and then Diarmuid scurries out the door with a smile.

David watches him go with an ache. Will he always be able to keep his husband happy so easily? Once they’ve indulged his cousin’s whims then he and Diarmuid can spend more time together and he can work on being a good and fitting partner to him. David can make the preparations for his garden; it might be too late in the season to grow anything now, but perhaps they could plan for the following year. A large crop of vegetables—beans, peas, carrots, turnips, spinach. And bushels of flowers—Diarmuid would love flowers—bright, cheery blossoms, like daffodils and sunflowers.

He hopes in time Diarmuid will flourish here as well.

* * *

The stables are full with his guest’s horses. Well-bred, finely groomed beasts. Their nickers and neighs can be heard even from a distance. As David approaches the stables a hearty voice calls out, “There’s the newly wedded lord, come to grace me with his presence. How’s your young husband?” Ivett, the stable master, stands at one of the stalls, arms crossed and grinning. A tall, hardy woman with short, blonde hair streaked with gray, and the piercing stare of a hawk. She’d served his mother’s household as a girl and followed her to the castle upon her marriage to David’s father to care for the horses. Ivett had taught David how to ride; he has no doubt she’ll be a fine teacher for Diarmuid as well.

David smiles and asks, “How’s your wife?”

“Finding you and yours a hart to hunt. A bit of fair warning would have been nice before my love was ripped right from our bed to trek for stags, though, eh?”

He sympathizes. “My own bed’s been disrupted for this.”

“Hah! The king’s generosity knows no bounds. He won’t rest till he gives every couple in this household a case of longing in his quest for butchered venison.” She bursts into loud, barking laughter and then stop abruptly, suddenly sober. “Ah, David, forgive me, I completely forget. Will you be alright?”

Near the end of the hunt, when a beast is surrounded and exhausted, it will stop, shore up any and all energy it possibly can, and defend itself with desperate, wild abandon in an attempt to cut through the hunters.

David has found, in his time during the war, that a dying soldier and hunted animal share the same wild-eyed but drained expression and shaking, chaotic bursts of movement. Eyes rolling with panic, grunting and wheezing with the effort of keeping upright. There’s so little difference, in fact, that he can no longer see one without imagining the other. He’s had no taste for hunting in years. He doesn’t now. But it will appease the king, and then he and his ilk—Raymond, Geraludus, and the rest—will finally leave his land and return to the excesses of the king’s palace.

It’s an easy trade. A day’s worth of unease and nausea for peace and quiet and his husband. So he shrugs and says, “I can manage one hunt. Where’s Diarmuid’s horse?”

His husband’s eldest brother gifted Diarmuid a horse as a wedding present. To the untrained eye it might seem like a slight; the bay-colored mare is a little long in the tooth, her coat and mane not particularly fine, and neither is she very tall. But David realizes as soon as he sees her that Tadhg’s also realized that Diarmuid is no great horseman and chosen the mare carefully. She is extraordinarily placid. As David and Ivett inspect her hooves and her teeth and praise her for her patience she sniffs curiously at the hem of David’s shirt and nibbles on it.

“What’s her name?”

“Seilide, the brother said. Sweet-natured creature.”

“The horse or the brother?” David asks, flatly.

“Ah, that man is not very fond of you, my lord. Interrogated me most fiercely about your character. I said if he paid me a gold piece I’d tell him all he needed to know.”

“And?”

“Said that ever since the king told you that you were to be wed, you’ve run yourself ragged trying to make this place a peaceful, comfortable home for your husband.” She pulls a shiny gold coin from her pocket and rolls it down her knuckles. Her eyes lock with his. “Don’t know if he believed me, but he gave me the coin all the same. But you remember that, David. Even before you laid eyes on Diarmuid, all you cared about was his happiness. He’s lucky to have you.”

It’s really the other way around, but the only one who’s ever been able to argue with Ivett is her wife, so instead David clears his throat and says, “Have Seilide ready for Diarmuid when he arrives. I have to go to the assembly.”

Ivett pets the horse’s flank. “Fine, fine. Go ahead. You need to prepare the gift that the king’s so generously imposed upon you.”

David shrugs. That’s how it’s always been, ever since they were children. His cousin, proposing a course of action, and David, left to follow through. But this hunt will be the final time, the last time. His role as husband supersedes any duty he had to his cousin, king or not.

Avice, Ivett’s wife and the castle’s huntswoman, is already at the field with two of her hounds and a mass of servants, a mixture of David’s people, Raymond’s, and the king’s. She waves David over as the rest eat from a spread that appears to be leftovers from the wedding banquet. Chicken with the skin still crisp, and warmed, thick stew with chunks of beef, chopped carrots and apples, the juices sopped up with loaves of fresh white bread.

“There’s my lord now,” Avice says with a grin. Her long brown hair has been haphazardly braided and pinned to her head and there are bags under her bright blue eyes, but she is nevertheless as cheerful as always in her element. “Found a hart. Great, big beast. Ten tines. The rest of my hounds are all in position, my lord. Soon as the king and all get here, we’ll be ready.”

David grunts. “Good.” Then, he adds, “Ivett’s angry. About the hunt.”

“I told her to expect something like this. Fond of the hunt, the king, ever since he was a boy. Trying to relive the olden days, I suppose. Remember how the three of you used to play in these woods? Your mother thought you’d be eaten by a bear.”

They’d scoured the area in hopes of finding one, Raymond, the king, and him. With charcoal and sheets of parchment they mapped out the parts of forest they’d already explored, certain that in one sector there would be a great brown bear to hunt. But God looks out for children and fools and they’d been both, and never did a bear cross their path.

That had been decades ago, long before the war. With a snort, David turns to his own attendants. They look up when he clears his throat to alleviate the harsh rasp of his voice. “My husband’s not used to riding. Never been on a hunt, either. Need two of you to stay with him while—“

He stops and stares as two young men force their way to the front of the group. When they shove one man aside he drops a hunk of chicken; it falls to ground where it’s snatched up by Avice’s ever-alert hounds.

“I’d be happy to do it, my lord—“

“Please, allow me—“

That it was that easy to find volunteers to watch over Diarmuid is both comforting and concerning. Perhaps more of the latter, if David’s being honest with himself, but he’ll worry about it after the hunt is over. One of the older hunters laughs at his bemused expression and elbows Avice in the ribs. “Rough times ahead for our lord, eh? Stressful life, to have such a pretty helpmate.”

Avice smiles. “Ah, I don’t know about that. My life’s been pretty easy ever since I married Ivett.” She claps a comforting hand on David’s shoulder and chuckles to herself.

* * *

It turns out David’s life is meant to be stressful after all, because when Diarmuid finally arrives not only is he in the company of both the king and Raymond, but the horse he’s riding is not Seilide. A stallion with a coat white like bleached bone and pitch black eyes, nearly seventeen hands high.

David rode that horse into battle during the final year of the ear and then never, ever again.

He curses, mounts his own horse, and moves to confront the king. Raymond and Diarmuid are a little ways behind him, side by side. Diarmuid looks nervous. Has Raymond been accosting him? He’ll put an end to it, if so. But right now the biggest danger is the stallion and the king’s stupidity. David stops his horse right in front of his cousin’s; the animal rears back in surprise. The king pulls on its reins and shoots David a quizzical look.

“That’s not Diarmuid’s horse.”

The king scoffs and shakes his head. “No, of course not. Raymond told me that stable master of yours wanted him to ride a _nag_. You’d probably get more use turning that thing into stew. You can’t honestly tell me you want that gorgeous young husband of yours on a flea bitten beast like _that_. Look how pretty he is—and who gave him the dark blue shirt? My compliments to them. It goes so nicely with his complexion.”

“I want him _safe_ ,” David growls, “That _nag_ is slow and gentle. The one you’ve put him on is for a skilled rider, for battle—he won’t be able to control it.”

“Come now, David. It’s not as though we’re putting a spear in his hand or anything. He’ll be at the back of the party. All he’ll do is follow and watch. It’ll be fun—way more exciting than anything they ever had at the monastery.”

David grits his teeth. “I want this done.”

“So eager for the chase? I jest, cousin. I know all you want to do is crawl back into bed and on top of your young man. We’ll catch our quarry and then you and I will have a nice talk and back to your chambers you’ll go.” He turns to Diarmuid and Raymond and calls out, “A royal hart for my new royal cousin. A fitting gift, eh, Diarmuid?”

Diarmuid sits tense and uncertain on the stallion. Softly, he responds, “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Raymond smirks. “You’ve married the Mute to a little mouse, not a lamb. How quiet he is! But I bet a skilled man can get you to sing and shout in the bedroom, hm?” His tone is different than the night before—the low croon implies not just Raymond’s usual vulgar harassment but implication, suggestion. Diarmuid, trapped on the horse, can do nothing but hold on tightly to the reins and avoid the man’s gaze, embarrassed.

David lets a low, guttural warning leave his throat. Even the king, who’s joked about marrying Diarmuid himself while drunk and who just teased David about their bedroom activities while sober, balks at the discomfort on Diarmuid’s face. “Raymond,” he says, “Enough. You’re upsetting Diarmuid.”

“Your Majesty. My apologies, Diarmuid. I only jest.”

It’s a damnable lie. The way his eyes fixate on Diarmuid’s lips and follow the low cut of his silk shirt—it makes David glad that his husband will be at the rear of the hunting party. He’ll be separated from David, yes, but he’ll also be far, far away from Raymond’s gaze. David glares at him as he and the king continue to ride toward the assembly.

Diarmuid manages to sidle up next to him. The anxiety on his face hasn’t abated. “Most of the horses in the stable are here—poor Seilide—she’s been left out.”

David says, “Don’t worry. She and Ivett will keep each other company.”

“I like her. Ivett.”

“So do I.”

His husband is still frowning. David wishes he could kiss him again, but he doesn’t want Diarmuid to tumble off the horse just for a peck on the cheek. Instead he asks, “Ready?” and upon receiving a nod they make their way to the waiting group.

“Everyone’s staring at me,” Diarmuid mumbles, “Can they all tell I’ve no idea what I’m doing?”

David pauses before saying, “It’s because you’re so beautiful.”

That brings a pretty blush to his husband’s face. “Oh, please. You flatter me, my lord—“

“I don’t flatter. It’s the truth.” Never has even a thimbleful of charm or fawning words spilled from David’s lips. He’s solid like a fortress’s walls, strong as a yoked ox, and blunt as a rusted knife—and he always will be. It makes the king laugh, makes the other nobles sniff or stammer, but David’s always found himself warmly welcomed among the foot soldiers.

Those men whose hands had been calloused by years of hard work at their trade long before they’d ever held a sword. The sound of their laughter, the campfire’s smoke curling around them as they passed along rationed mugs of beer—it’s one of his few good memories from the war.

Diarmuid doesn’t seem to know exactly how to respond to this, but his blush deepens and he finally gives David a small smile. “If you say so,” he says.

If Diarmuid isn’t aware of his charms, then how does he explain the attentive treatment from the two young attendants? As they travel through the forest, waiting for Avice’s lymer to scent the hart, he hears Diarmuid shyly ask questions and the two men all but fall over themselves to answer.

“What is it we’re hunting?”

“A hart, my lord—a full-grown stag.”

“Fully warrantable.”

“Massive, Avice said, and a full ten tines.”

“O-oh?”

“That’s the number of points on its antlers, Lord Diarmuid. When you hunt red deer, you’ll only want a hart of ten or more.”

“Why?”

“That’s just sportsmanlike, my lord.”

“No honor in anything less.”

Diarmuid says, “Forgive me. This can’t be very fun for you, to watch over me like this. Thank you for putting up with me.”

“No, my lord! You were at the monastery, they wouldn’t have taught you all _this._ ”

“We all have to start somewhere! Lucky for you we’re here to help. Don’t worry.”

“Thank you,” Diarmuid says again, sounding a bit more cheerful, “I’ll do my best—“

The sharp call of a horn drowns out his words.

The hart’s been spotted. The group lets out a series of joyous whoops and gallop off. David glances back at Diarmuid, who’s gone still with confusion, and jerks his head forward. The chase is on.

It’s far too familiar, galloping past the others until he’s riding alongside the hounds. As soon as Avice had pinpointed the possible path the hart would take, she’d set a dog and a handler each along the way to be released when their quarry was found. Now they rush after the hart, a series of snarling, barking blurs in David’s peripheral vision.

They’ll corner the beast. However large the forest is, however dark and wooded, there will be no way for the hart to hide or to rest. Not with Avice’s hounds on their scent, and not with a determined unit of men ready and waiting to route his escape. The horn sounds again, signaling the knights to retreat behind the lines and the archers to step forward.

No, wait, that isn’t right—

His horse crashes through a creek and lumbers up the other side of the bank. David allows a moment’s rest before he spurs her on, flecks of water flying from her coat. Around them some of Avice’s hounds lunge out of the water, panting and snarling, and giving their fur a shake before they, too, continue on. In the distance there’s the flash of movement of more dogs released, the sound of their handlers urging them on with encouraging shouts.

David breathes in time with the mare. At the slightest tug of the reins she immediately turns to another direction. The screams and war horns don’t bother her in the slightest; she pays attention to only David’s touch. This is the way to survive a battle. Atop a well-trained horse, sword in hand.

“My lord,” a man shouts, “The hart’s headed to the edge of the forest.”

Perfect. They’ll flush the man out and flank him. He won’t be able to escape.

No, that’s not what this is. What is—he’s lightheaded. David shakes his head vigorously and spurs his horse onward through the thinning forest. He reaches the tree line and flies out the other side, accompanied by dogs and the rest of the hunting party.

The hart’s nearly at bay. It’s fleeing still, but exhausted enough that the hounds can nip at its legs. They do not actually bite. Avice’s dogs are too well trained for that. They’ll merely run the animal ragged until it can do nothing but stamp and scream.

This beast is enormous, nearly seven feet long and probably over 400 pounds. This is where the danger lies, when the hart’s desperate and exhausted and angry and ready to pierce its pursuers with its ten-pointed antlers.

They’ve driven it to this; its panicked eyes rolling wildly in its sockets, the harsh grunts and shrieks that it emits, the scratches on its hide seeping blood from having jumped through thorns and brambles in its frenzy to escape.

Some of the haze clears from David’s eyes and finally he is able to think, and the thought that rolls through his head is _Thank God the king will kill it_.

He doesn’t think himself capable of it now, not even in his confusion. But the highest-ranking man in the hunting party gets the honor of making the kill, and there is no one higher than the king himself.

Avice whistles and the dogs scatter, leaving the king and Raymond and David closest to the hart. The attendants gather around them, ready to trap it if it flees from the king’s spear. As they circle the hart David swears he can see it watching him.

There must be care in how one pierces the hunted animal. Too many stabs ruins the pelt, and a stray stick in the guts could potentially rip the stomach or intestines, ruining the meat. It is a testament to his cousin’s skill and strength that he jumps off his horse, takes his spear in hand, and lunges forward, breaking through skin and bone and straight to the beating heart.

Some say that a stag can live for hundreds of years, but this one, a full-grown hart, dies twitching and panting and groaning, bleeding out on the dirt as men cheer around it.

What does Diarmuid think of this display? Has it upset him? Disturbed him? David turns to find the white stallion and his husband’s face among the crowd.

He’s not there.

Frowning, he searches instead for the two young men who were seeing to him. They’re with Avice, speaking in low, anxious voices.

“Where’s Diarmuid?” he asks, startling the trio, “Where’s my husband?”

Avis says, “He got separated during the chase, my lord.”

The young men chime in. “We’re so sorry—“

“We thought he was right behind us.”

David takes a deep breath. “Where—where was he last?”

“We’re not sure.”

“Maybe by the creek?”

If he got lost near the creek, would Diarmuid stay along the water? Or would he have attempted to find the rest of the party? He might’ve gotten turned around and gone deeper into the forest, but eventually the trees grow so densely that it’s impossible for a horse to pass between them. No, he’s smart. He’ll have stayed near the creek. It’s the easiest identifier.

The king’s booming voice breaks his line of thought. “David, what are you doing over there? Come congratulate me on this kill. You’ll have venison for days.”

“Diarmuid’s lost,” David rasps.

His cousin frowns. “What?”

“ _My husband is lost_.” The harshness of his voice and the anger in it makes the two young attendants flinch and has the rest of the hunting party turn towards them, concerned.

Raymond tilts his head to the side and watches David’s growing panic. “Calm yourself. Look, there’s his horse now.”

A hush falls over the group. The white warhorse trots along into field, sniffing at some of the dogs and the carcass on the ground, completely unperturbed and unconcerned that it is missing its rider.

“Oh, God, no,” David moans.

* * *

Avice suggests that he find something of Diarmuid’s for her hounds to scent, but there’s nothing, David didn’t think to bring anything else, not a—a favor, or another piece of clothing—and there’s nothing on the damned horse, not even a scrap of silk, just an empty saddle that has David’s heart breaking.

He rides through the forest himself, as angry and desperate as the hart, pursued by his demons and the fear of what he might find on the forest’s ground.

The stallion did not fall with Diarmuid. It could not have. It _cannot_ have. It was unharmed and its coat unmarred by either dirt or blood. David’s seen men crushed to death by their own steeds. Soldiers whose warhorses startled and reared and fell backwards on to them, breaking their backs underneath the weight.

But he’s also seen men thrown from frightened horses, their limbs limp like a ragdoll’s and their body crumpled against the ground, their heads smashed against rocks, brain smeared against stone.

They’d been large, hardy men, trained for battle, and Diarmuid is so small.

If—if he is dead, then—then, please, God, let it have been quick. The thought of Diarmuid, frightened and broken on the unforgiving earth, sobbing and in pain, alone as the life drained out of him—

David turns his head and vomits up the breakfast that he’d shared with Diarmuid this very morning. The bread and butter, the eggs, the sweet, floral tea. He wipes his mouth and then his eyes and stifles a sob. This is punishment for his hubris, surely. That he thought that they might—that this might have worked out, this marriage. That Diarmuid might live long and happily with him.

When he arrives at the creek another thought occurs to him. Could his husband have fallen and drowned? The water isn’t very deep, but if he had fallen, gotten knocked unconscious—

He cups his hands to his mouth and screams, “Diarmuid!” David will ride up and down the entire creek if he has to. He’ll comb the entire forest for his husband. He’ll—

There is a very small figure huddled against a tree. He approaches warily, unsure what he will do if the body is cold, still, but he then he spots his husband’s chest steadily rising and falling.

“ _Diarmuid!_ ”

The young man startles awake. Upon seeing David his eyes light up. “David! You found me! _Ouch_!” He winces when David pulls him up into an embrace.

“Sorry,” David says, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—Where are you hurt? What happened?”

Diarmuid holds his hands in his. “I fell. When we got to the creek—the horse didn’t want to wade through and reared back and I fell off. Sort of—on my side. Everyone was so focused on the hunt, I don’t think they noticed. So, I just waited here for you. And you found me!” He steps toward him for a kiss, but David’s breath still reeks of sick. He pushes him back with a firm hand.

His husband looks sad. In a small voice he asks, “Oh. I’m sorry. Did I—did I ruin the hunt after all?”

“No.” David shakes his head. “No, it’s just. When I thought you could be badly hurt I—I was sick.” He gestures to his mouth. Diarmuid’s eyes widen.

“I’m so sorry, David! I didn’t mean to. I tried, I really tried—” He sniffles, tears forming at the corners of his eyes like crystal beads.

David’s heart aches. He gently pulls Diarmuid into another hug, careful not to squeeze him too hard. “Will I always be the cause of your tears?”

Pressed against his chest, Diarmuid mumbles, “You’re not.” At David’s scoff, he says, more insistently, “No, you’re not. It’s always—This is all so new. Everything is so new and I—I just don’t want to disappoint you. I don’t know how to be a good husband to you, but I’m trying. I just need to learn.”

“You could _never_ disappoint me.” David places his hands on Diarmuid’s hips and looks into his eyes. “This is new to me, too. We’re learning together. How to be married. Okay?” When Diarmuid nods and gives him a shaky smile, David dares to press a quick kiss to his cheek.

“I’m a little glad I missed it,” his husband murmurs. “I didn’t want to see the stag get killed.”

Small mercies. David presses another kiss to the top of Diarmuid’s head, on his mop of curly brown hair.

“We’ll go back to the rest and show them you’re alright,” he says, “And I will talk to the king. And then we will leave, and we’ll have the physician look after you. And I’ll have the cooks prepare dinner for us. Whatever you want.”

“Oh! Um, bread would be nice. Maybe with cheese? And lentil and vegetable stew, please.”

He thinks of the hart, unmasked on the dirt, butchered, strips of flesh thrown to the hounds. “Whatever you want, Diarmuid,” David says.

When they return to group a cheer goes up. Avice pats their horse’s flank and blows a whistle. It emits three sharp shrieks: a signal to the other hunters that Diarmuid’s been found.

David dismounts and carefully helps Diarmuid off the horse. David’s men hover around them, blocking them from view. The two young attendants babble apologies to Diarmuid for leaving him behind as he blushes and demurs and apologizes for falling the first place.

“My husband needs to rest,” David barks. “Seat him by the campfire while I speak to the king. Do _not_ allow Lord de Merville to approach him.” Some of the men glance toward Raymond’s group and mutter darkly.

The uncertain expression has returned to Diarmuid’s face. David kisses his forehead. “I’ll be right back.”

“Yes, my lord,” Diarmuid murmurs.

The disappearance of David’s husband has obviously not interrupted the end of the hunt. The hart’s been stripped clean. Avice’s hounds gnaw on its bones. The head is missing, probably taken to mount on the king’s walls. And further away the king has had a tent erected, perhaps a bit smaller than David’s bedchamber. The guards spot the look on his face and move aside to let him enter.

He finds his cousin drinking, lounging on a pile of pillows. When the king looks up from his goblet he stands so fast that a splash of red wine spills onto the dirt.

“David! You’ve found him, then? Is he all right? I’m sorry, this isn’t how I wanted this to turn out at all—“

“You’re always sorry,” David rasps. He can feel the anger simmering inside him. “What did you have to discuss with me? Talk and be done with it. I’m taking my husband back to our castle.”

The king looks as though he wants to argue, but instead he sets the goblet down on a side table and draws himself up. “Yes. Well. I wanted to talk about the future of the kingdom.”

David stares at him and waits.

“My successor.”

At David’s silence he continues. “I’ve thought quite hard about it, and I’ve, er, made a decision. Geraldus is probably confirming it with the other advisors as we speak.”

An adoption? Or perhaps a pregnancy? The king’s had a number of lovers throughout the years, men and women alike, but none who ever seemed to hold any special place in his heart and start a family with. Unsure as to what to say, David replies, “Congratulations. To your dynasty. May it be long and storied.”

His cousin smiles, delight written across his features. “Ah, it will be now, I think. I need someone respected, someone who will hold onto all the gains that we’ve made—strengthen them, even. Someone who can really unite the people.” He pauses. “Diarmuid’s father is one of the richest men in this kingdom, and his family’s old and well-loved. Their people are wild—they’ve never willingly bowed to me, but they’ll happily bow to you with one of their own your side.”

A surge of panic sends David’s heart racing. “What?” he asks, voice hoarse, “What?”

“You can’t be a proper king if you don’t have the right consort, cousin. Didn’t I say I would take care of everything for you? A pretty, pious husband. The support of his family and their allies, money and soldiers. That summerhouse his father threw in for good measure. And a kingdom. That’s as good a present as any, isn’t it?”

David shakes his head. “No, I can’t. I won’t. Why? Why me?”

“Who else would there be? You’re my cousin. You’ve been my lifelong companion. I’ve always sought your advice and your thoughts, haven’t I? You’ve never steered me wrong. And you’ve supported me, fought for me. Who else would I choose?”

“Raymond?” The thought is horrifying, but he is just as legitimate a choice as David, if not more.

For the first time his cousin looks a bit uneasy. “I’ll admit, I discussed that with Geraldus. But, he’s…Not popular, with many of the other lords and ladies. Or the officers, really.”

“Neither am I.”

“Ah, but, you see, there’s been some—some accusations. Conduct during the war, some bedroom rivalries, that kind of thing. I’ll tell him my decision, but I wanted to wait to tell you, first.” David thinks of the way Raymond undresses Diarmuid with his eyes, how he speaks to him, how his husband tries to hide from the man’s gaze and shrinks from his words. Whatever someone’s charged him with, David is certain it goes beyond petty jealousy. His cousin continues, “And besides, he’s not who I wanted. You’re to be the king, David.”

“I won’t accept. I’ll refuse it.” He has never wanted the crown. Never even thought of it. As a youth all he cared about was swords and wrestling and avoiding his lessons, as a soldier just to survive, and now he merely wants his husband, to see him smile, to hold him.

The king flushes an angry red. “Well, really now, David. You’d plunge us into a succession crisis? A civil war? You’d splinter the kingdom, bring bloodshed back to our shores? You’d do that to our people? You’re the best choice for the future of this land, cousin. I thought you’d be happy. I thought you’d _thank_ me.”

The rage boiling inside him bubbles over. “Should’ve thought of that before making me your heir, then, you fucking _moron_ ,” David roars, “As selfish and stupid as you’ve always been. Not once in your life have you thought of anyone but yourself. The future, the people—you just don’t want your reign to end with you, as a footnote in history. The king who brought nothing but violence and death, who cared for nothing but meat and wine and a good fuck. You’re a jester in your own court. I know your motives. So does God. When you die and face Them for all the lives you’ve upended and ruined, beg for Their mercy. You’ll get _none_ from me. Any love I had left for you I dropped onto that beach with my armor. It’s probably at the bottom of the sea, now. Go look for it there, if you want it so much.”

When he is done shouting his chest is heaving from exertion, his throat raw. Perhaps it is the blood that’s rushed to his head, but he thinks there’s a coppery taste in the back of his throat where his strained vocal cords ache. David spits on the grass.

The king gives him an odd smile. He pours himself another glass of wine and holds it up to David. “You see, though? That’s something I’ve always admired about you, David. You only ever speak the truth, and you suffer no fools. A very fine king you’ll be.”

* * *

The rest of the hunting party avoids his gaze when he leaves the king’s tent. Even if his words weren’t intelligible, his roaring certainly was. He chances a glance at Raymond, who’s watching him with suspicious, narrowed eyes.

Even his own people eye him warily when he approaches. Avice is soothing her dogs; his shouts must have made them nervous. “David?” she asks.

He puts a hand up to stop her and shakes his head. Diarmuid, huddled near the fire and draped with a blanket, stands and hurries toward him. “What’s happened, my lord? Are you okay? We heard you yelling.” Diarmuid’s eyes are wide and full of concern.

“Later,” David says. His voice sounds terrible—he overdid it, in the tent. When he clears his throat it stings, and it’s difficult to form words. “Back to the castle. To the physician. For you. Then, we’ll talk.”

Diarmuid nods. “Yes. Yes, of course, my lord.”

Once his husband is safely on the back of David’s horse, David settles behind him and spurs the animal towards the castle. Their attendants follow. They ride at a slow, steady pace so as not to agitate Diarmuid’s injuries.

Quite a path for one’s life to take, David thinks, to go from prospective monk to the future prince consort in the span of a month.

Diarmuid leans back against his chest and sighs and David holds him all the tighter.


	6. A Home and A Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diarmuid recovers from his fall and receives an extremely unwelcome visit from his father. Once David takes care of it, the couple has a talk about their intimacy and Diarmuid's comfort.
> 
> Warning in this chapter for verbal and physical abuse as well as discussion of marital rape.

Before beginning the search for Diarmuid, his husband had sent a rider to the castle to let Rua and the others know that he had gone missing, was quite possibly injured, and to ready the physician. Between the time that the rider alerted the entire staff and household and their arrival, the residence has been thrown into chaos with rumor and conjecture.

A small crowd of impatient servants greets them at the stables. As Ivett happily rushes to embrace Avice, one of the her stable hands takes the reins of David’s horse and, shaking with excitement, asks the man, “My lord, is it true you fought off a _bear_ all on your own to rescue your lord husband?” He is undeterred and unbothered by the irritated noise David makes; he seems to take the response as an indication that something much more heroic occurred.

"Couldn’t have been a bear,” Ivett says, idly, stroking her wife’s cheek with a weathered hand. “Only my Avice could take one alone.”

Avice shrugs and smiles. “Nothing fiercer than you, love.”

Diarmuid watches them with a little bit of jealousy and a great deal of longing. The easy way they speak to one another, how they expression affection in front of others, the sweet names they call each other—each action tells the story of years of happy marriage. Would David like it, if Diarmuid referred to him as—my love, dearheart, darling? Would he ever refer to Diarmuid by such a term? Perhaps one day.

“Diarmuid?” He looks up to find his husband staring at him with concern. “The physician.” His voice is terrible. It has always been rough; Diarmuid likes his deep, gravelly tone. But now it’s so hoarse and raw and it sounds so painful. As David leads him back to the castle, Diarmuid decides that while the physician will first take a look at him, he’ll make sure that his husband also gets treated.

It is an effort to get to their bedchamber because the castle is in an uproar. Men and women clamor around them, a sea of panicked, excited faces. One of the maids, a matronly woman by the name of Cainech who had served his parents’ household, scurries to him, holding a wrinkled, tear-stained handkerchief. Sobbing with relief, she tells him that she’d heard that had been thrown from his horse and tumbled down the cliffs to his death.

There are no cliffs in the area.

Nevertheless, he thanks her for her concern and apologizes for worrying her and everyone else for such a silly mishap.

She dabs at her eyes. “So, you weren’t thrown from your horse, my lord?”

“Oh, well, yes. I was,” Diarmuid says, “Just—just not down a cliff.”

David quickly leads him away as she stares at him in horror.

* * *

The physician’s name is Cathal; another one of his family’s staff sent to populate David’s household. He is a slight, dark-haired man who looks as if he is normally quite pleasant but who, in these circumstances, finds himself extremely harried. As soon as they walk in he has Diarmuid sit on the edge of the bed. On David’s desk he’s opened a case filled with vials and flasks of various colors and sizes and a myriad of envelopes of powders and herbs.

Immediately he begins to scold David. “Well, it really would’ve been better if you hadn’t moved him, my lord,” he says, squeezing Diarmuid’s limbs as his husband paces behind him. “Next time there’s a fall like this, have me brought to the patient, not the other way around.”

David frowns. “Will be no next time,” he rasps.

“Cathal,” Diarmuid says, “Please examine my husband’s throat next.”

“ _After_ you," David growls.

“Of course, of course,” Cathal soothes. “Now, would you please disrobe, my lord?”

Diarmuid blushes. It’s completely ridiculous, because he and David have already seen each other nude, have slept in the same bed in that state at that, but for some reason undressing in front of his husband in this context has him hesitant. He asks, quietly, “I’m sorry, David, but could you…?”

Like a soldier receiving an order his husband nods, turns sharply on his heel, and marches from his own bedchamber. “Be right outside,” he says, before shutting the door.

Cathal very kindly decides to organize his case of vials and bottled concoctions as Diarmuid strips off his clothes. He winces when he has to pull his shirt over his head, lets out a small hiss as he bends to remove his boots and pants. It looks as though his entire left side is red.

The physician clucks his tongue. “Ah, my lord, you’ll have some nasty bruising for a few days.” His examination is professional, respectful, and more than gentle than Diarmuid had thought it would be. While thorough in checking Diarmuid for potential breaks, tears, or internal injury, he apologizes each time his prodding elicits a wince or a whimper. Finally, he reports with a small smile, “Well, my lord, it seems as if you’ve been thrown off a horse.”

Diarmuid laughs. “Oh, goodness, is that your final diagnosis?”

“Indeed. Nothing broken, nothing sprained. You’ll be quite sore for a little while, but that and the bruises will be the worst of it. But that still had to be quite a shock for you, so I’d recommend you get some rest. I’ll prepare a mixture for you—valerian extract with some chamomile and lavender in warm, mulled wine. Drink it after your meal.”

“Thank you, Cathal.” Diarmuid pulls on a large nightshirt that had been laid out for him, the same length as David’s velvet tunic and it’s very fine but somehow it doesn’t feel as soft or warm on Diarmuid’s skin. And it’s fresh and clean but he would’ve greatly preferred the scent of his husband on the material. These thoughts spur him to ask Cathal, “May I—could you answer a medical question for me?”

The physician turns from his case. “What do you wish to know?”

“It’s about—about sex,” Diarmuid stammers out.

Cathal does not seem surprised. “Yes, my lord?”

“Does it have to hurt? Initially?”

That seems to perturb him; his expression grows wary. “What do you mean by that, Diarmuid?”

Wiggling on the bed, hands clasped together in his lap, Diarmuid says, “I mean, well. Surely there’s a way for it to be more—more pleasant? So that it’s, um, enjoyable for the duration? The—the initial, um, aspect of it. The penetration.”

The physician is frowning. “It should not hurt, Diarmuid. If you’ve been prepared enough it should not hurt, I assure you.”

Ah! This hadn’t been mentioned in any of the stories he’d read in his family’s library. Diarmuid leans forward. “Yes? How does one prepare?”

Cathal doesn’t even blink. “With oil. Copious amounts of it.”

“Oh! You mean—for—“

The physician proceeds to give him an impromptu lecture on the actions one should undertake in order to engage in safe, responsible, and pleasant intercourse. It is informative, enlightening, and by the end of it Diarmuid’s face feels so hot he’s sure he could boil water. There is a sound and practiced logic to it, of course, and it isn’t as though he disbelieves Cathal, but. But even with lubrication, and—and fingers—Diarmuid had seen on his wedding night that husband was quite large even when not in a state of arousal. When the time comes, will David really _fit_ inside him?

A careful question from Cathal stirs him from his concerned thoughts. “My lord? Diarmuid? Is this all new information for you?”

How embarrassing! He’s a grown man, and yet—well, it isn’t as though he’s completely naïve. There’d been the young men who’d visited the monastery, the kisses and touches they’d shared, and the erotic tales he’d gotten through had perhaps been light on some details, but there’d been enough. “Well. I’m not ignorant about the process. But, um. I didn’t know certain aspects. So—so thank you for telling me how to make it more—more comfortable.” Though he isn’t sure _how_ comfortable it’ll be. It’d be preferable to have it painless.

Cathal looks appalled. “Diarmuid, is there something you want to—“

They both jumped at the loud knock on the door. “Everything alright?” David called.

Diarmuid shifts on the bed. “Yes, my lord. Please, come in.”

His husband enters with a tray laden with bread, cheese, and what appears to be a bowl of stew. He sets it on a clear space on his desk, next to Cathal’s case, and addresses the physician. “What of my husband?”

The man purses his lips. “Bruised, and in need of a good night’s sleep, but otherwise fine. However, you would do well to remember that your husband lacks your experience. He is quite unused to _rough_ and _strenuous_ activities, my lord.”

That seems a bit of an overstatement, Diarmuid thinks, frowning. There had been plenty of hard work to do at the monastery, from caring for the livestock to foraging for herbs for Ciaran, and he’s always loved swimming and walking and climbing trees—the king had merely chosen an activity that he had never had reason to learn.

David blanches at Cathal’s words. He rasps, “Never meant—thought it best to just. Get it over. Done with.”

Cathal frowns. “Yes, well. You should’ve known better. Take more care with your husband. A lord should strive to be noble in both bearing and behavior.”

His husband appears thoroughly chastened and not a little bit sad and Diarmuid thinks this strange, uncalled for scolding has gone on far too long. He draws himself up in the blankets and furs, outraged. “Cathal, _stop this_. My husband is a _gentleman_. He’s kind and sweet and caring and—and— _ow!”_ A sudden shiver of pain courses through his left shoulder. David rushes to his side.

“Don’t strain yourself,” he says, running a comforting, calloused hand over Diarmuid’s shoulder.

Diarmuid leans into his touch. He murmurs, “You’re one to talk. Let Cathal take a look at your throat, please. I’m worried.”

“After you eat,” David insists.

“Well, then let me eat.”

The bread is from this morning but still soft, the cheese sharp and pungent. David attempts to spoon feed him the vegetable and lentil stew but sheepishly places the tray with the bowl in Diarmuid’s lap when he notices Diarmuid’s glare.

It was a sweet thought, really, he muses, lifting bite after bite of carrots, lentils, onions, and savory broth to his mouth, but he is neither an invalid nor a child. He made a mistake out in the forest. He’s a little scraped up, but not even enough to complain about, and he’ll do better next time. Then his husband will see him as capable, as someone he can rely on instead of a delicate, coddled burden who’s always a moment away from tears.

When Diarmuid glances up from his meal he finds the older man staring off into space, deep in thought. “Are you okay?” he asks. “Is it—what the king discussed with you?”

David shakes his head. “Later. You need to rest.” He hands Diarmuid the cup of mulled wine mixed with the powdered herbs that Cathal left.

It’s a strong wine and the flavor of the herbs has not made it more palatable, but Diarmuid swallows it down. At least it’s warm. He hands the empty cup to David, who sets it aside on his desk. “Lay down, Diarmuid.”

“You _must_ have Cathal take a look at your throat while I’m asleep,” Diarmuid mutters.

“Yes, my lord,” his husband teases.

The pillows seem to be more comfortable than the night before. The medicine is fast working; it’s already difficult to keep his eyes open. Diarmuid settles into the blankets and asks, voice heavy with impending sleep, “How long have Ivett and Avice been married?”

The question seems to take David aback. He pauses to calculate, eyes at the ceiling. “Since before I was born. Forty years or more.”

His answer makes Diarmuid smile. How wonderful! Practically a lifetime’s worth of love and care. They’ve spent more years with one another than without, and they’re still so affectionate and tender. He and David could have that given enough time. He reaches for his husband’s hand, for his calluses and scars that only grow more steadily familiar and welcome on his skin.

David kisses his cheek and gently strokes his hand as sleep overtakes him.

* * *

It’s morning when Diarmuid stirs, sunlight seeping through the cracks in his clochán. Too late for first prayers, then, to wake before the sun rises and sing his devotion with the rest of the monks. As a child he’d thought that it was they who brought about each new day, coaxing the sun back to the sky with their hymns every morning.

Silly.

He snuggles back into his pillows.

A wren cheerfully trills outside the window.

There is a tentative knock on the door. Which is—which is extremely strange, because the huts of the monastery have no doors.

Or windows.

Diarmuid sits up, bleary and confused. “Yes?” he calls.

A man peers into the room. “My lord, your father is here to see you. Will you receive him?”

How kind of the abbot to visit him when he’s feeling unwell! “Please, see him in,” he says. Diarmuid hopes his absence hasn’t upset the daily chores too much. It’s always his task to forage; he has a keen eye for wild herbs and flowers. And Brother Bressel is so suspicious of the cows—the won’t get milked if Diarmuid isn’t there—

But it’s not the abbot’s kindly face that greets him.

It’s his father, tall and lean and displeasure etched onto his harsh features.

Diarmuid instinctively shrinks into his blankets. The last few days’ events come rushing back to him like a wave. He hopes his father has come to check up on him, but the expression on the man’s face tells him otherwise.

“G-good morning, Father,” Diarmuid says.

His father glares at him. “So, I see you’re well. They told me yesterday you might be dead or dying, but it looks like it was a great deal of fuss for nothing. Tell me, did you always make a spectacle of yourself at the monastery, or is this a recent habit formed from newfound freedom? First at the ceremony—“

“I was frightened, Father,” Diarmuid whispers, clutching the blankets to his chest.

“Well, at least _the Mute_ seemed to find it charming.”

He’s shivering underneath the furs, but that comment lights a spark of anger in his heart. That—he doesn’t like that, when people refer to David by that name with such contempt, such derision. “My lord,” he states, eyes narrowed.

The incredulous look his father gives him is somewhat satisfying. Diarmuid continues, “When you speak of my husband, you will refer to him as ‘my lord.’ He is your better, Father—a great man.”

His gratification at his father’s shock is short-lived. The man storms to the side of the bed and yanks the blankets from Diarmuid’s hands, tossing them to the side. “If you’re going to speak to me you’d better stop _hiding_. You think _me_ ignorant of social hierarchies, child? Of where I stand? Of where our _family_ stands? Why do you think I married you to the brute in the first place? Out of the monastery for a month, and you think to lecture _me_.” The man lets out a mirthless laugh and grits his teeth. “Tell me, did the king and _your lord husband_ have their discussion before your histrionics ruined yet another event?”

Diarmuid stares at his hands. “N-no. After. After I was found. They did talk for a bit, but something angered David and we left. He didn’t tell me what happened.”

His father throws his hands skyward. “Ah! Perfect! I marry my son to one of the most powerful men in the kingdom and what do I get in return? Nothing but a rude, surly little boy whose husband does not even bother to keep him abreast of important matters.”

The rebuke stings. Diarmuid blinks back tears. “But—but he said we’d discuss it, when I’d rested a bit, Father,” he offers.

The man scoffs. He saunters around the room, hands behind his back, peering at David’s desk, the woven carpet, the embroidered tapestries on the walls. “He does seem rather fond of you, I suppose. The bedding went well, I presume?”

A blush roars across Diarmuid’s face like a forest fire. “No, no, we haven’t—that is, we’ve yet to—“

“You’re joking.” When he stays silent his father stomps back to the side of the bed and yanks his chin up. Diarmuid attempts to avoid his gaze but the man squeezes his jaw and snarls, “ _Look at me._ Didn’t I tell you to make yourself agreeable to him?”

“He—he said we could wait, until I’m r-ready.” His husband is so kind; Diarmuid’s truly lucky that it was David’s face that greeted him when his veil was brushed back at the wedding.

His father snorts. “You think he’ll wait around forever? The shy, chaste little novice will only interest him for so long. All he needs is someone with a willing pair of open legs and a sympathetic ear and we’ll have lost our best chance at advancement in court.”

“W-what?”

“Soon enough every noble family throughout the land will be throwing their pretty sons and daughters at him—you think you’ll compare? Get him into bed, Diarmuid. Make yourself available to him whenever he desires so that he’ll never have reason to look at another.”

Diarmuid sniffles. David would never—would he? He’d said that it didn’t matter to him whether or not they had sex, but does that mean he will eventually find fulfillment elsewhere? But Diarmuid does want him, it’s just… “I—please, Father, I’m afraid. I’m scared it will hurt, I don’t want—“

The sneer on his father’s face is extraordinarily ugly and cruel. “You’re _joking_ ,” he says again. “The future of our family is on the line—your brothers, your sisters, your nieces and nephews—and you’re balking because you’re worried about a little pain. Didn’t they teach you about sacrifice and selflessness at that monastery of yours? How did a group of monks raise a selfish, impudent coward?”

With a quick, sudden movement, he lets Diarmuid’s head drop and _squeezes_ his left side, nails digging into his skin just under his ribs, still sore and bruised from the fall. Diarmuid cries out at the jolt of pain that races through his body. “Ouch! Father, stop, please, please!” He trembles, tears rolling down his cheeks.

“But I’ve already stopped. Look.” His father spreads his arms out wide. “And that wasn’t so bad, was it? You’re still alive, aren’t you?”

Stifling sobs, Diarmuid wipes his eyes and whispers, “Y-yes,” though he aches where his father’s grabbed him.

“See? Pain is finite. It will end. Now all you have to do is lay back on that bed and wait for him to finish. He’ll be done by the time it takes to say a prayer—just think of that.”

But—but even if it is David, the very thought of having to—to be held down on the bed by another’s weight, bound to endure and suffer and pray as someone forces themselves onto him, into him—

He cannot stop the distressed cry that spills from his lips, or the cascade of tears that follows. Diarmuid curls up, back against the headboard, knees to his chest, shoulders shaking as he weeps. “Please, not that. I don’t want to—I’m scared. I’m sorry. I’m s-so sorry, Father. But I tried—I talked to Cathal, about—please, believe me. Just don’t—p-please don’t hurt me again—“

Diarmuid sobs so loudly that neither he nor his father notice when David enters the room.

“ ** _What is this?_** ” His husband’s voice is like a crack of thunder, his face a mask of fury, eyes narrowed, lip curled around his bared teeth. He’s shaking, not like Diarmuid’s fearful trembling, but actually quivering with rage. His father had snarled at him, but David looks like a beast given human form.

Diarmuid’s father takes a step back, his irritated expression transformed to one of panic. He glances at the shut door and back to his son-in-law. “My apologies, my lord,” he wheedles, “My son is still feeling unwell. He’s hysterical—“

“He was fine. Sleeping. **_What have you done_**?” Behind the rage Diarmuid can hear him struggling to speak. Did he ever go see Cathal? He’ll only damage his voice further.

Shivering on the bed, he says, “D-David, be careful, please, your throat—“

His husband’s gaze softens but his voice remains a gravelly, raw growl. “Diarmuid. What’s happened?”

But what can he say? That his father own father hurt him? Yelled at him and threatened him for not having yet consummated their marriage? Ashamed and humiliated, Diarmuid frantically shakes his head and wails, a fresh wave of tears falls from his eyes.

David turns to Diarmuid’s father and growls, “ ** _Leave_.**”

“Now, wait just a moment, my lord—“

But David does doesn’t wait. He surges forward in two long strides and grabs Diarmuid’s father by the throat. The man sputters and chokes, scrabbling to lift David’s massive hand from his windpipe, but David drags him like a ragdoll into the hall. The door slams shut, but Diarmuid can hear the commotion outside, a cacophony of voices—the guards, Rua, his father’s strangled gasps, and David, snarling and raging like a wolf.

“David—you’ll kill him, let go, let go—“

“Ready his horse. He’ll **_never_** step foot here again.”

The high-pitched wheeze his father makes is almost humorous. “Diarmuid is my _son_ , I have a right to see my son—“

“You have no rights to **_my husband_** ,” Diarmuid hears David bark. Then, again, “Ready his horse.”

* * *

Diarmuid is still sobbing when his husband returns. He rubs at his eyes with his sleeve, furious with himself.

He’s pathetic. He wasn’t fit for the monastery, no matter how much Ciaran and the abbot tried—always too unfocused, too undisciplined. He would’ve made a terrible monk. But now he’s been made into an ill-matched companion for David, one who’s untrained in running a household and who can’t even—can’t even provide a nightly comfort to his husband. All Diarmuid ever does is weep, and all David ever does is soothe him.

So when David kneels at the side of the bed and asks, “Can I hold you?” Diarmuid turns away from him, sniffling and crying. An anxious tone enters his husband’s rough voice. “Tell me what happened, Diarmuid. Please.”

He does not say anything for a time, merely curls up and buries his face in the blankets, but David does not leave. Instead he feels a tentative hand on his back and, when he doesn’t react either way, David gently rubs at the spot between his shoulder blades with his palm.

When there are no more tears left for him to cry and when he’s feeling more exhausted than upset, Diarmuid turns and sits up to face his husband. “D-do you have another?” he asks. His voice is wobbly.

David frowns, brows furrowed in confusion. “Another what?”

“A-another partner. A lover. Is that why it’s—is that why you don’t care if I give myself to you?”

“Diarmuid.” Disbelief creeps into David’s hoarse rasp. “Is that what your father told you?”

“He said that I need to make myself agreeable to you. To find your favor, so that—so that our family’s future will be secure.” Diarmuid bunches the blankets with his fists. “He was angry that we haven’t yet consummated our marriage. He said you’d find someone else and that I should just—just pray, and wait until you—until you finish.”

Abject horror lines his husband’s face. He crawls onto the bed and pulls Diarmuid into his arms. “Diarmuid, _no_. Never. I would _never_ —I told you that on our wedding night.”

Diarmuid nods miserably. “I know, I remember. It’s just—he upset me, and—and I would like to, and I know you would never intentionally hurt me, but I’m frightened. I asked Cathal what could be done to make it hurt less and he told me how to prepare but I don’t—I don’t know, I’ve never done _that_ before, either.”

An odd look passes over David’s face. Something like realization. “ _Ah_. So Cathal—never mind. Diarmuid, why do you _want_ to have sex?”

“Because I want our marriage to work!” Diarmuid wails. “I want—I want to be a good husband and s-satisfy you—“

David’s hands run up and down his sides. “Is that the only reason? You think it’s your duty?”

Shifting so that he can hug him, Diarmuid says, “No. I want _you_ , David.” He’s the only person that Diarmuid’s ever really wanted, the only one who makes his heart flutter in excitement and anticipation, who makes him feel safe and calm wrapped in his embrace.

“You have me.” His husband holds him tight. “I’m happy, just like this.”

“But I want—“ Diarmuid hesitates. He feels so selfish, so embarrassed. “I want to feel you, and touch you. And I want you to touch me and feel me as well. But—“

David interrupts him. “But you’re scared of penetration,” he says, matter-of-factly.

Diarmuid’s face, blotchy from tears, reddens further. “Y-yes. I’m sorry.”

A kiss is pressed against the top of his head. “Don’t be sorry. We can do something else, if you want. Whatever makes you feel good. My hands, or my mouth.”

His words make Diarmuid shiver, and yet… “But, what about, um. What about _your_ pleasure, David?”

“I’d take pleasure in just watching you.”

That answer seems a bit of a dodge. Diarmuid pulls back and frowns _._

A sigh. “My own hand. Or, I’ll show you what I like. Just as you’ll tell me what you like. Right?”

“R-right.”

Diarmuid snuggles into the crook of David’s neck, arms wrapped around his waist. His husband continues his gentle ministrations, his touch especially feather-light around Diarmuid’s bruised left side. They’re pressed together so tightly that Diarmuid can feel David’s heartbeat against his own chest, its steady, strong rhythm a balm to Diarmuid’s jittery pulse.

He is very nearly asleep again when his earlier concern flashes through his mind. “David, did you have Cathal examine your throat? I don’t want you to hurt your voice.”

A guilty look creeps onto David’s face. “Supposed to be having tea with honey.”

“Have you had any of that today?” At his husband’s silence, DIarmuid firmly pushes him off and admonishes him. “ _David!_ You must take care of yourself! Are the kitchens still open? We’ll have your tea.”

“Only if you eat breakfast,” David grunts.

“Fine,” Diarmuid says, “Fine. But I want to see you drink that tea.”

“Yes, my lord," David murmurs.

* * *

The hall looks different without the crowds of wedding guests and the musicians and the piles and piles of food. It’s quiet, nearly empty. There are only a few of the servants cleaning the tables and utensils. Diarmuid attempts to hide his face in David’s side; his eyes are still red and puffy from his crying and he’s certain he looks terrible. Indeed it seems a few of the servants are glancing askance at him, fretful and concerned.

If David notices the stares he ignores them to dote upon Diarmuid. They sit next to one another, just like at their wedding banquet, and as they wait for the table to be set he pulls their chairs even closer together so that their knees touch and Diarmuid can rest his head against his husband’s shoulder.

The earlier confrontation with his father and his weeping has drained Diarmuid of his energy, but the sight of the food that David’s had prepared cheers him immensely. It’s simple fare, warm and comforting, just like at the monastery.

Plain oatmeal with a choice of savory salted fish or sweet, spiced baked apples. Freshly baked bread, both brown and hearty and studded with grain and white and soft and fluffy. And rich, yellow butter pressed into flower moulds and plated around the loaves like a small field of wildflowers. They’re so pretty Diarmuid feels a bit guilty plucking one and spreading it on his slice of brown bread, but it’s so yummy.

“Good?” David asks.

“It’s good!” Diarmuid watches his husband force down another mug of tea. “Is it too bitter, David? Do you need more honey?” He stirs another spoonful of the stuff into David’s drink, frowning when the older man tries and fails to hide his distaste.

“Just not fond of tea,” his husband grumbles.

Diarmuid leans toward him and kisses his cheek. “Keep drinking, please. Your voice sounds better already.”

David smirks. “How about a kiss for each sip, then?”

He’s teasing, but Diarmuid thinks it’s good motivation. When he says, “Yes, of course,” a surprised but pleased expression crosses his husband’s face and he gets to work. Soon there’s nothing but the sweet taste of honey and earthy black tea on Diarmuid’s tongue and David’s contented rumble in his ears. After the last drop is gone from the mug Diarmuid decides that a small celebration is in order and he peppers David’s jaw with kisses, giggling at the tickle of his beard against his skin, before his husband all but tugs him onto his lap and covers Diarmuid’s mouth with his.

A nervous, uncomfortable cough startles them from their reverie. One of the servants eyes them warily, as if at any moment David might just sweep the table clear with his arm and push Diarmuid on top of it. Perhaps that’s why the man asks, “May I clear your plates, my lords?”

They pull apart. Diarmuid blushes and nods and stares at his lap, not a little embarrassed at their conduct. David gently rubs his knee. As their dishes are collected, Diarmuid recalls something else from the wedding banquet.

Worrying his lip, he asks, “David? Do you remember what we discussed during the banquet? You said that we could have a feast for the poor—food to hand out to them. Could we still do that?”

David looks surprised, but he inclines his head and says, “Of course we can.”

“Then… Could I help bake the bread? If the head baker doesn’t mind? I’m good at baking bread. They taught me, at the monastery.”

His husband places a much more chaste kiss to his curls. “They’ll be happy for your help. We’ll talk to them later. You still need to meet the rest of the staff.”

Yes, Diarmuid has to learn everyone’s names and faces in order to successfully run the day-to-day activities within the castle. And he’ll have to learn exactly what those day-to-day activities actually _are._ It can’t be too much different from life at the monastery—taking inventory of supplies, cooking, cleaning, caring for livestock, assisting travelers, helping settle disputes—Brother Bressel tended to misplace things and invariably blamed the next creature he saw, be it the cat or the abbot himself—

David catches his attention. “Diarmuid? I want to show you something. When you’ve finished eating.”

* * *

The castle’s walls are bordered by large, grassy fields. David walks him a little away from the stone structure, to where the forest is just visible but also where the castle’s shadow still reaches them. They stop at a small plot where the grass has been cleared and the soil upturned.

David rubs the back of his head with a hand. He looks nervous. “You wanted a garden. Thought this might be a good spot? Is there enough sunlight? Is the soil fertile enough? I don’t know what you can grow now. Never grown anything before. But I can help till the soil for you.”

Diarmuid inspects the plot of land. From where the area sits in relation to the castle’s walls there should be more than enough sunlight for the crops. And the soil is dark, nearly black—excellent! He smiles. “It’s perfect, David! If I start planting spinach now we’ll have some by winter. I could plant onions, too, but those wouldn’t be ready well until summer—carrots and peas by early spring, perhaps—“

Relief blooms across David’s face. “You like it, then?”

“I love it. Thank you.”

His husband presses a kiss to his forehead. “Anything you want. Just ask for it. I want this place to be a home to you. For you to find comfort in it.”

Diarmuid blushes. “Then, could you—I want you to kiss me like you did at our wedding,” he says.

David nods. Diarmuid closes his eyes and waits.

After what seems like an eternity, he feels David grab either side of his face and give him a peck on the nose.

His eyes fly open. “David!” he scolds.

Theres’s the beginning of a smile on David’s face. “That’s how I kissed you,” he says, innocently, brow furrowed in mock confusion.”

“Well, I meant the other kiss.”

“Was there another?”

“ _Yes_!”

“Remind me.”

Diarmuid murmurs, “You held me like this.” He takes David’s hands and puts them on his hips. David gives him a squeeze. “And—and I had my hands like this—“ He presses closer and puts his palms on his husband’s broad chest, fingers splayed.

His husband’s voice is low. “Now I recall,” he says.

Before Diarmuid had thought that he simply didn’t like to kiss. All the young men who had visited the monastery—ostensibly for prayer or shelter, but always seeking him out as soon as they could get away from prying eyes—neither their hands nor their lips had ever much interested him. The way they had put their mouths on his had been a curiosity, a way to while away the time, and Diarmuid had honestly felt little else but bemusement at their activities and mild irritation at the merchant’s son, who always tried to slip his hand up his robes no matter how many times Diarmuid slapped it away.

But with David it’s—it’s odd, difficult to describe, because he never tires of it, their kissing. Each time it’s as though they’re at the altar and all he can feel and see is David, how warm he is, how strong and protective. But that first kiss, and all the ones after—it’s as though it was always David he was waiting for. They slot together perfectly, their lips against one another’s, their fingers laced together, the way Diarmuid fits underneath David’s chin when they embrace.

His husband is, as always, careful with him, his fingers brushing lightly against Diarmuid’s bruises. But his kiss his hungry. David’s tongue licks against Diarmuid’s lips and then into his mouth as if searching for a lingering taste of honey, wet and hot and wanting. It makes Diarmuid’s heart pound and his knees tremble, but—

But he can tease, too. He laughs at David’s groan when he pulls away. “More of that later,” he commands, “I want to meet the rest of the household today.”

As he pulls David back to the castle, he hears his husband say, both amused and a little frustrated, “Yes, my lord.”


	7. An Accusation and Afterwards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As David and Diarmuid become comfortable with their life together, Diarmuid grows into his role as a lord's husband. David finds himself protected and comforted by Diarmuid. Their relationship grows ever closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a sex scene in this chapter and to be honest, I'm not sure it's really that explicit (at least, compared to some other sex scenes I've written...) but I've changed the rating of the fic just in case. But I'll also assure you now that the only sex in this fic will be the fun kind where both parties involved have a good time. 
> 
> As usual, I had a bit of trouble with this chapter, but I hope it's still enjoyable!

Later that night, when Diarmuid is excitedly telling his plans for the charity feast to the increasingly harried looking cooks, Rua asks to speak to David in his study.

“You weren’t as discrete as you could’ve been this morning,” his advisor tells him.

Even with the memory of Diarmuid’s delighted reaction to the garden and the lingering taste of his lips on David’s tongue, the morning’s events are still fresh and raw in his mind. His husband, cowering and sobbing in their bed as his father loomed over him, angry and threatening. Diarmuid had told him the entire story during dinner, fidgeting in his seat and with the linen napkin in his lap, face bright with shame as he’d told David how his father had grabbed him. How he’d _hurt him_.

Just the thought of it nearly sends David rabid with rage once more. “Think I should’ve been _kinder?_ Let him abuse my husband more before sending him away?” That sorry excuse for a man was lucky Diarmuid had been too upset at the time to explain what had occurred or he wouldn’t have left the castle alive.

Rua has never been one to cower before his anger. He says with a sigh, “I wasn’t saying you should’ve been _tactful_. You could’ve broken every finger in that bastard’s body for all I care—but it would’ve been better to do it out of sight. An absolute asshole that man is, but a powerful one, and you dragged him out the castle gates by the scruff of his neck like a naughty kitten—right in front of everyone. He’ll view that as a humiliation. There could be reprisals.”

David snorts. “Then let him come. Next time I see his face there won’t be enough of him to feed to the hogs.”

“Just be aware, my lord,” Rua replies, “That not everyone conducts their business face-to-face, as you do.”

* * *

But the next two weeks pass with neither complaint from Diarmuid’s father nor any messages from the king save the one sent when David’s cousins and their myriad servants returned to the capital.

It read:

_To my one true and loyal David,_

_I regret how our last meeting ended, but I understand the day’s excitement took a toll on your (very short) temper. I do feel most terribly for your lovely husband’s accident. He is very sweet, and I know you adore him most ardently (did I not make a fine choice for you, my friend?)._

_But you must realize that my decision is final. There is no more fitting heir than you, cousin. Geraldus has already informed the rest of the advisors at the capital and we’ll make a formal announcement upon my return._

_And worry not. I’ll deal with Raymond. He won’t be pleased, I know, but he’ll come around. We all might have grown apart, in our adulthood (isn’t that how it goes?) but he is still our cousin and I am certain he will see reason, just as you will the next time we meet. It will be a real discussion, no injured spouses and no spitting blood at me. Unsightly but not unusual with you, David._

_I know better than anyone it’s not the bark one has to fear from you, but the bite._

_Until we meet again,_

_your loving cousin (the king)_

He has yet to tell Diarmuid about this newfound status as the king’s heir, but his husband has been so busy acclimating to his new home and the day-to-day responsibilities of maintaining a castle and charming its inhabitants—from the guards to the kitchen staff to the scullery maids—in addition to organizing the charity feast. David refuses to add more stress to his life.

Though, to be perfectly honest, Diarmuid does not seem particularly stressed. He is adept enough at preparing food that he is grudgingly allowed into the cook’s domain, and he happily wakes up before dawn in order to assist and take inventory. A collection of staples and dry goods are forming—cured meat, containers of grain and beans and legumes, dried fruit, and woven rush baskets ready to be filled with fresh bread. There will also be some of the dishes that were served at their wedding banquet. Each day Diarmuid’s come to him with a shy request for cheese, beef, goose, oranges, violets—David’s granted every single one, cherishing the delighted smile he received each and every time.

“Some people buy their husbands pretty jewelry,” Rua had remarked one day as he read the castle’s expenses, “But four whole cows and eight sacks of oranges will do just as well, I suppose."

The thought of his husband in jewelry caught David’s attention. “Do you think Diarmuid would like a necklace?” he’d asked as Rua groaned and rolled his eyes. He was already beautiful, his clothing simply cut but finely made and tailored, and he’d already amassed countless admirers among the staff, but the image of Diarmuid in a court gown, gemstones dangling from his ears and around his neck and wrists—he’d be absolutely ethereal. David had filed the idea away for another time. A surprise for after his husband’s hard work.

The only hiccup comes after officially procuring the local church as the place to hold the feast. Outside they will have a package of goods for each of the visitors, and inside tables of food that each person can pile upon a trencher and their own silver tankard to partake in the wine. “You’ve made an allies of the city’s silversmiths, at least,” Rua had remarked. But a group of irritated nobles sent a worried letter, explaining that the masses would not respect the sanctity of the church and their fears that the holy site would be left in shambles afterwards.

David was more than ready to tell them to eat shit, but after chiding him for his language Diarmuid insisted that the group be allowed to say their piece.

They met the nobles in the great hall a few days later. David receives respectful, somewhat fearful greetings while the group delights over Diarmuid when he arrives with a tray of sweetmeats and wine. One of the men kisses his hand, expresses his absolute joy to be able to meet Diarmuid in person, and then kisses his hand again.

And again.

He stops and hastily returns to his seat when David lets out a guttural growl.

Their arguments are essentially the same as the letter they previously sent. The nobles praise Diarmuid’s generosity and piousness—and his beauty, multiple times—but insist that the he does not know what he will unleash upon one of God’s houses: an overcrowding of unwashed and ill-mannered masses on sacred ground.

Diarmuid only stares at them, incredulous. He asks, “What is the Church but a sanctuary for those in need? Would you rather have it be an empty, pretty building than one that gives succor to the people? Items can be replaced and a structure can be repaired, my lords, but people’s lives cannot. Is it not your duty as great men to use your resources to ease the lives of others?”

Gently admonished by a beautiful, devout young man, the group of nobles give their blessing and leave, shamed-faced and, at Diarmuid’s insistence, with the sweetmeats.

David manages to hide his grin until the last is out of sight. “You handled that very well, Diarmuid.”

Rua cackles. “Hard to argue about God and church with a former novice, eh?”

“Ah, well,” Diarmuid says, “I learned from the best. No one can argue quite like a group of monks. Especially regarding food…”

Once the well-regulated chaos of the post-wedding feast ends, they fall into an easy routine.

Diarmuid wakes for early morning prayers and is back by the time breakfast is set on the table in their bedchamber. After a meal together David sees to guards’ reports from the previous day, discusses what is happening in the surrounding area with Rua, and walks the castle’s perimeter, inspecting its walls. Diarmuid, meanwhile, spends this time alternating studying in the library or practicing his horsemanship with Ivett.

The afternoon is set aside for petitioners to come to David with their ideas and grievances. Here his husband sits silently at his side, a comforting presence with gentle, encouraging smiles to soothe David’s temper.

When the last person leaves the great hall they part once more. Diarmuid leaves for the garden, which they tilled and sowed together but which still has nothing growing—though Diarmuid tells him to be patient—and David reads yet more reports compiled by Rua. When his husband returns happy and exhausted from his garden David has a bath waiting for him. Afterwards they eat dinner, undress, and spend the night cuddled together, talking about the day and kissing until they fall asleep.

It’s bliss. It’s more than David could have asked for and more happiness than he has any real right to.

Now the only issue is the lack of letters from the monastery.

There are none from Diarmuid’s father—the man had sent exactly one letter addressed specifically to David and only David apologizing for any potential misunderstanding that might have occurred the morning he’d sent his son into hysterics.

David had burned it.

His husband is cheered by the letters from his sisters, particularly Aoife’s stories about Young Aoife and seems somewhat nonplussed by an almost constant stream of communication from his brothers. “Tadhg and Eoin have hired a tailor for me,” he says, idly, sitting at David’s desk to pen a reply, “That’s Eoin’s wedding present—another set of clothes. I think I’d rather see a milliner, though. A hat for garden work would be nice.”

David agrees that a hat for the garden would be splendid and quickly places it to the top of his list of gifts to buy for Diarmuid, which grows longer every day.

Still, each new day with no news from the monastery is a fresh disappointment.

“I’ve sent Ciaran a letter every chance I’ve gotten,” Diarmuid sadly tells him over breakfast one day, “I thought perhaps I’d have received at least one by now. But then, it is so far away.”

David says, “It is. But you’ll get them all at once. That’s how it always is. More than likely they’ve just gotten stuck somewhere along the way. Bad weather, or a blocked path. Soon enough you’ll be drowning in them.”

“Really?” His husband looks cheered by the thought. “I just have to keep waiting, then.”

* * *

But nearly another week after that conversation there are still no letters for Diarmuid, who has grown increasingly homesick and anxious. After the servants who brought them both their breakfast and the mail bow and exit the room he stares despondently at the food, lip quivering.

“Do you think maybe something’s happened?” he quietly asks David over an untouched plate of bacon and eggs. “Ciaran could’ve gotten sick, or—or maybe he’s injured—“

David attempts to comfort him. “I’m sure he’s fine, Diarmuid.”

His husband’s eyes fill with tears. “Then—then maybe he’s just forgotten about me.”

“No one could ever forget about you,” David says, brushing away a few errant tears that roll down Diarmuid’s cheeks. “Just wait a little longer, Diarmuid. You’re going to make yourself sick with worry.”

“I’m sorry, David. I’m happy here with you, I promise, it’s just—“

“You don’t need to be sorry for missing your parent,” David says. Then, he offers, “We don’t have to wait for a letter. We can arrange to visit the monastery and see him.”

Diarmuid wipes his eyes with his sleeve. “Oh, David that would be—but it’s so far away, though.”

“Nothing’s too far or too much for you,” David says, truthfully. Then, he adds, “Have a good cry if you want. It’s okay.”

Diarmuid chuckles, eyes red-rimmed, and buries himself David’s chest for a warm embrace.

A knock on the door interrupts them. The voice of one of the guards call from outside, “Lord Diarmuid’s brothers are here with the tailor for his fitting.”

“Oh, no, I forgot,” his says, furiously wiping at his face, “I look a mess.”

“Do you still want to see the tailor today?”

“It’s fine. I just need a moment to get myself together.”

David nods. “Take your time. I’ll keep them occupied.”

His husband scurries to the washbasin with a towel while David deals with his brother-in-laws. Tadhg and Eoin stand just outside the door and already seem to be irritated at the delay.

“Where’s Diarmuid?” Tadhg asks.

There’s something accusatory in his tone that sets David’s teeth on edge. “Where’s the tailor?”

Eoin glances nervously from him to his brother. “Setting up. Rua found us an empty room near the—“

Tadhg interrupts him. “You’d do well to collect him. The tailor’s waiting. Hourly rates, that man. Very skilled.” He shoots Eoin a glare that David can’t quite interpret. But being commanded to gather his own husband in his own home has David’s temper flaring.

He growls, “Diarmuid’s getting ready. If it’s that much of an issue, then let me talk to him. I’ll pay him double for the extra time.”

“No, no, this is a gift, there’s no need for that,” Tadhg argues.

“Then what are you complaining about?”

An awkward silence falls over the passageway. His oldest brother-in-law’s anger mirrors David’s own. Eoin places a hand on Tadgh’s shoulder and gives him a meaningful look. One of the two guards posted outside David’s bedchamber door clears his throat.

A moment later Diarmuid appears, lightly dressed in a long, loose dark green dress that ends just past his a little past his knees and a pair of brown stockings and slippers. It’s obvious that he’s been crying—his eyes are still slightly red and puffy—but he smiles when he sees his brothers.

“Good morning, Tadhg. Hello, Eoin. It’s nice to see you both—“

Tadhg frowns. “What’s wrong?”

“What? Nothing, just—something silly.”

“You were crying,” Tadhg insists. Diarmuid flushes pink with embarrassment and David’s temper flares again.

“He’s fine,” David growls.

Eoin agrees. “Yes, you look well, Diarmuid. But why don’t you change into something more appropriate? Get your boots, at least.”

His husband’s face falls and David damns the two men to walk each and every circle of Hell. Diarmuid says, “I just thought it’d be better to wear something comfortable.”

“Well, still, perhaps some trousers and a tunic? Just to have the tailor see what you already have.”

David snaps, “Thought you were worried about the time. Now you want him to change? The tailor’s making a new wardrobe. It doesn’t matter what Diarmuid’s wearing to the appointment.”

An odd smile graces Tadhg’s lips. “He’s right. Eoin, take Diarmuid to the tailor. I want to have a chat with our brother-in-law.”

Diarmuid frowns, but David shakes his head. “Go, Diarmuid.” His husband bites his lip but nods and links arms with Eoin, who leads him down the passageway.

Tadhg clears his throat. “Well, Mute. We have much to discuss.”

Once inside the bedchamber Tadhg’s face transforms with fury. He looks like a demon.

He looks like Diarmuid’s father.

David is tense, irritated. The man’s been nothing but rude and abrupt and now he’s the one who’s angry about something—the family resemblance goes past appearance, apparently. “Speak,” David commands.

Tadhg stares at their unmade bed and at Diarmuid’s uneaten breakfast. “I’ve heard some things. About my brother’s marriage. I needed to see if the rumors were true.”

“What rumors?”

“Did you force him to lay with you? Or did he refuse you? Is that why you beat him? Why was he crying before we arrived?”

David’s temper snaps. “You’ve got a lot of fucking nerve to say that to me. You think I’d hurt Diarmuid? You think I’d hurt _my husband_?”

Tadhg scoffs. “Cainech said that the doctor told her his side was _purple_.”

Cainech? The maid? What did she know about his marriage? “He fell from his horse. That monster you call a father should’ve told you that.”

“Our father knows nothing of what’s going on in his own son’s marriage since you _banned him from the premises_ and refuse to answer his letters!”

This is too much. “You charge me with abuse,” he roars, “When that man _humiliated_ my husband. **_Hurt him._** If it’s his side you take then you’re as unwelcome as he is.”

Tadhg yells back, “You’d isolate Diarmuid from his _family?”_

David barks a joyless laugh. “What family he had is back at the monastery. You’re just the people that _sold him_ for your own gains.”

There’s a clamor outside the door. Both men ignore it. Tadhg grits his teeth. “You don’t know what you speak of. You think we wanted him married off? That I wanted my baby brother bound to _you_ for the rest of his days? _The Mute_. Nothing but a killer, a savage. It makes me _sick_ to think my brother left a life of God to be the plaything of a beast.”

The animosity in Tadgh’s words surprises David. He stares at him, shocked, not the least because his brother-in-law has verbalized a fear that haunts David in his darkest moods. But he has never—

“I’ve _never_ hurt him,” David rasps, eyes wet. Would never. He’d die first.

The door bursts open. It smacks the wall and rattles on its hinges. Rua rushes in, hand in hand with Diarmuid, sans slippers, followed closely by a frazzled Eoin with scratches all over his face and his hair is mussed, and the two bewildered guards.

Rua says, “David, I didn’t know they were here—I had no idea at all—“

Eoin looks at Tadhg apologetically. “I told Diarmuid to get ready, Tadhg, but he just clawed at me and ran.”

Their words are like oil thrown over a fire. David’s tears roll down his face as anger _explodes_ from his very being as realization dawns on him. “This was all a ruse,” he snarls, vision blurring red, “You were planning to _kidnap my husband_.”

Tadhg sneers. “Be easier to take care of all this now, rather than when you’re king.”

“What?” Diarmuid asks. “King—David, what’s he’s talking about— _DAVID!_ ” He screams as Tadhg advances on David, a knife glinting in his hand. One of the guards grabs both Rua and Diarmuid and pulls them away while the other scrambles after Tadhg.

Only he and Tadhg have seen battle but his brother-in-law is still no match for David even as out of practice as he is. He’s angry, desperate; he swings his arm in an arc and it’s too wide and too slow—the path of his attack far too obvious.

David grabs Tadhg’s wrist, squeezing it as hard as he can, and gives it a sharp yank. He cannot help the grin of satisfaction when he hears something snap. It’s more than enough to get the man to drop the knife but David wants him to _hurt_. He shoves his brother-in-law to the ground, hands the guard the knife, and gathers his trembling husband in his arms.

Diarmuid holds him tight, fingers bunching the fabric of David’s tunic as he maneuvers them so that he stands as a shield between David and both his brothers, one groaning in pain on the floor and the other now held immobile by the guards.

His husband’s voice is shaking with a mixture of fear and incredulous anger. “You tried to—I can’t believe the two of you would— _how dare you_. How dare the both of you. David’s _never_ hurt me, _never_. That’s more than I can say for Father.” Diarmuid rounds on Tadhg. “And you don’t know anything about me, about my marriage—you need to stop treating me like a child you need to mind. It’s been seventeen years. You’re my blood, but—you’re not my _family_ anymore. None of you have been for a long, long time. But David _is_.”

Tadhg looks stricken. Diarmuid continues, “I’m not the baby you used to hold, or throw into the air and catch. I’m a grown man. If I was ever in trouble and in need I’d ask you myself. You can’t just make decisions for me, try to control my life. That’s what Father did. What he’s still trying to do. David’s the only one who’s ever asked what _I_ wanted, and I want _him_. If—if you’d hurt my husband I would’ve never forgiven you.”

Eoin mumbles, “Diarmuid, we only thought—“

“I know what you thought, but you were wrong. And—and I’d like you to leave.”

“I’m sorry, Diarmuid,” Tadhg says.

Diarmuid’s voice is sharp. “Don’t apologize to me. It’s David you threatened. It’s his character you insulted.” When both men opt instead to stare at the floor, Diarmuid turns to the guards. “Have Cathal attend to my brother’s wrist and then see the both of them out, please.”

Rua says, “I’ll accompany them as well. I need to know how they got so far into the castle without my knowing.”

His husband shuts the door when they leave. The _click_ of the lock breaks David’s resolve; he falls to his knees, wracked with sobs.

Diarmuid rushes to him in alarm, his face pale with worry. “Are you hurt? David, what’s wrong?”

David pulls him into a tight embrace, crying against the material of Diarmuid’s lovely green dress. “They thought I mistreated you. They thought I _beat_ you—that I _raped_ you.”

His husband rubs his hands up and down his back. “I know, David, I’m so sorry. They were so wrong and they should’ve never said such things to you.”

“I would **_never_** hurt you.”

“Oh, David, I know. You protect me. You’ve only every protected me.”

Against the smooth skin of Diarmuid’s neck David rasps, “I don’t deserve you. The things that I’ve done—they stole you from the monastery to give to me, of all people. You would’ve been a saint if not for me.”

At that Diarmuid chuckles softly and pulls back to dab at David’s face. “You think too much of me. I would not have been a saint. I’d have been barely a tolerable monk. And—I realize that the life you’ve had has affected you, in ways. But please, just know that—that when my brothers came to the monastery and told me I was to be married, all I hoped for was that my husband would be kind to me. And you have been, you’ve been so kind. You’ve been more than I ever could have asked for. I’m so glad it was you who met me at the altar. Thank you for being my husband.”

David takes a long, shuddering breath and sobs anew with Diarmuid’s hands running gently through his hair. “ _Thank you_ ,” he whispers, “ _Thank you, Diarmuid_.”

He cries until he’s completely exhausted. Diarmuid guides him to the bed and curls up next to him. “I’m alright,” David murmurs. “I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

They lay together as David’s tears dry and his breathing returns to normal. Diarmuid nestles into his side with David’s arm around him—their usual position in bed. “David?”

“Yes?”

“What Tadhg said, about you being king—what did he mean by that?”

David says, “At the hunting party. The king told me that he’s made me his heir. And that he married me to you because your family is powerful, and would be my allies.”

Diarmuid considers this. “You’ll be king one day, David? But why didn’t you tell me?”

His voice hoarse from talk and tears, David replies, “Because I don’t want to be king. And because I didn’t want to upset you. So much has changed for you recently, to go from a novice to a lord’s husband. I thought that—the prospect of being married to a king, to being a prince consort—that it might scare you off.”

His husband kisses the corner of his mouth. “You’ll be a good king. You take care of me and everyone else in this castle. There’ll be many more people to be responsible for, but I’ll be there to help you as best I can. Don’t worry. I won’t go anywhere without you.”

David can say nothing. He’s been struck dumb by the kindness that Diarmuid has shown him and by the affection he holds for him. He takes his husband’s hand and kisses the inside of his wrist. Imagining Diarmuid at his side, finely dressed and beautiful with his gentle, calm presence, he says, “I can only try. But I know that with you with me, I’ll be at my best.”

Diarmuid smiles.

* * *

When he wakes early the next morning the side of the bed where Diarmuid softly snores is empty but still warm. David washes his face, dresses as usual, and waits for his husband’s return so that they may eat their breakfast. But as time passes and there is still no sign of Diarmuid panic creeps into David’s heart. The chapel, he’d have just been in the chapel—surely there was no way he could be abducted from there, not when the only way out was into the hall. The staff would’ve noticed, especially after yesterday’s debacle. And yet—could he have changed his mind? Left under the guise of prayers when most everyone was asleep?

David bolts from the bedchambers, frantic. He rushes to the great hall, where some of the staff are in the middle of cleaning the stained glass windows and sprinkling the floor with sweet smelling herbs. They greet his alarm politely, because in the past few weeks David’s alternated between panic and bliss—something that the staff agrees is not unusual in a newlywed. His question only affirms their belief.

“Where’s my husband?” he croaks.

One of the women at the windows gives him an appraising look. “Why, my lord David, lord Diarmuid’s only gone out to tend his garden.”

The garden? “But he does that in the afternoon,” David says.

Just as bewildered as he, she replies, “Well, I’m just telling you what I know, my lord. Your husband’s out in the garden. You’ll have to ask him what he’s up to.”

“Of course,” David says, distracted, “My thanks to you.”

David all but sags with relief when he finds Diarmuid kneeling in the dirt. “Diarmuid!”

At his call his husband looks up and beams. “David, look! They’ve sprouted!” He points at the soil, dotted with a number of fresh little green buds.

The start of their crops.

David kneels by Diarmuid’s side and inspects the garden further. The garlic and onion shoots are growing well under his husband’s careful attention.

Diarmuid chatters happily. “Oh, I could make you onion soup. With cheese and fresh bread. What do you think we should grow next year? I was thinking, maybe we could find some cuttings of wild strawberries and raspberries? Those go well in oatmeal, but they’d be delicious with custard and cream. Or pears, what about pears, David?”

The garden’s success heralds a future with Diarmuid, working next to him in the dirt, tasting his cooking, listening to his voice, holding him in his arms.

David murmurs, “Yes. Whatever you want. Just ask. All you have to do is ask. I’ll get it. Whatever it takes to make you happy.”

Diarmuid smiles. “I know. I am. Everything you do makes me happy.”

Heart hammering in his chest, David asks, “What do I do? Tell me, please?”

His husband nuzzles against him. “How you protect me, and listen to me. How you look at me. How you smile at me—oh! Like _that!_ ” He laughs and presses his fingertips to David’s grinning lips. “And how you kiss me—“

“You like how I kiss?” David brushes his beard against Diarmuid’s neck. “That makes you happy? I can do that all the time.” He kisses his husband’s exposed shoulder, his neck, his jaw. Diarmuid wraps his arms around him as David covers him in kisses.

When David leans forward Diarmuid falls back and they tumble into the grass together, laughing. Diarmuid squirms underneath him, giggling, as David presses kiss after kiss to his face. His forehead, his nose, his cheeks—each peck of his lips on Diarmuid’s skin elicits a burst of joyful laughter from his husband.

But then David shifts to better accommodate his leg—aching from an old wound from the war that never properly healed—and Diarmiud’s knee rubs against his groin. It’s light, fleeting, just an accidental brush, but he instinctively thrusts into the touch. Diarmuid’s laughter stutters to a gasp. His gaze flits from between David’s legs to David’s bright red face, his eyes wide with surprise.

“I’m sorry,” David rasps, “I didn’t mean—“

He stops as his husband slowly moves his leg along David’s inner thighs. “Kiss me again?” Diarmuid asks, softly, “Please?”

A broken moan escapes David’s throat. Diarmuid’s lips are moist and glistening and inviting. He places his palms on either side of his husband’s head, fingers digging into the dirt, and slips his tongue into Diarmuid’s waiting mouth.

There’s no honey or tea this time—just the younger man’s spit. He tastes Diarmuid, just Diarmuid, just his husband who’s arching underneath him rocking his hips against David’s. As he sucks on Diarmuid’s tongue he presses his weight on him gently, carefully—and is rewarded with the feeling of his husband’s arousal against his own.

When David pulls away Diarmuid’s face and neck are flushed pink, his pupils blown black, and his lips red and swollen from kissing. “Back to bed?” he asks, and Diarmuid bites his lip and nods.

“Yes, please. Please, David.”

Anything Diarmuid wants. Whatever Diarmuid wants. He pulls him up and brushes stray flecks of dirt and blades of grass from his clothing. He kisses Diarmuid’s forehead, takes his hand, and then they practically sprint back to the castle.

Diarmuid cannot stop giggling on their way to their bedchamber. They rush past servants, who see them careening towards them and politely step out of the way and bow but are addressing empty space by the time they manage to say, “Good morning, my lords.”

They take the steps of the stairs two at a time. His husband is panting and laughing when they get to the top and so David scoops him into his arms and carries him to their bedchamber.

The expressions of the guards posted outside their door do not change; they’re too well disciplined for that. The only indication that the men know what is about to happen inside the room is their slowly reddening faces.

“We’re not to be disturbed,” David commands as a now blushing Diarmuid buries his face in the crook of his neck, “Feel free to stretch your legs, but let one of the maids know to prepare hot water for a bath.”

“Do you have any idea when, ah, when you’ll be needing it, my lord?” one of the men asks.

David admits, “It could be some time.” Diarmuid lets out a little gasp that has the guards’ eyes dart to his bare shoulder before resolutely moving back to David. “Just have them keep it hot.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The _click_ of the door shutting and locking is like a song in itself. David kisses Diarmuid’s forehead once more and gently sets him down. “Let’s undress?” he asks.

His husband nods and shyly turns away to unlace his boots and disrobe.

David does the same with much less decorum. He pulls off his tunic and throws it over his desk chair. He shucks off his own boots, shoving them underneath the desk. Then he unlaces his trousers and steps out of them. He was already half-hard in the garden. Now, the thought that in a few moments he’ll have his husband naked and spread out on the blankets, panting and moaning against him, has his cock swollen and aching with need.

Diarmuid sits on the bed, completely nude and absolutely lovely and extremely nervous. He takes one look at David’s erection and pales, asking, “David, how am I supposed to fit all of you inside me?”

God preserve him. David bites back a moan as the scenario plays out in his mind. Diarmuid, rocking back on his well-oiled fingers, stretched and ready and begging for him. He gives the base of his cock a squeeze before replying, “Don’t worry about that now. Today is about your pleasure.”

“Okay,” his husband whispers. He fiddles with his hands. David guides him onto his back. Another kiss to Diarmuid’s curls seems to calm him somewhat, but he has to be certain his husband is ready—that he wants this.

“Are you comfortable, Diarmuid? We can stop at any time. Just tell me. Do you want to stop now?”

“No, no, please—I’m just nervous. I don’t—I’ve—I’ve touched myself, before, but never…” He swallows. “I’m not sure if I know how to be good for you.”

“Don’t worry about that,” David says again, “I want to see you. I want to feel you. I want to watch your reactions to everything I do so that I know what you like. So I know how best to pleasure you.”

“ _Oh.”_ Diarmuid bites his lip. “How do you want me?”

“Just like this.” David runs a callused hand up Diarmuid’s hips to the side of his ribs, marveling at his pretty, freckled skin. “I’m going to keep kissing and touching you, okay?”

Diarmuid nods and settles against the blankets and pillows, his arms on either side of his head, eyes closed, lips parted in anticipation. He moans as David runs his tongue along his lower lip, and when David moves on he sighs.

One day he’ll cover Diarmuid’s entire body with his own, worship every bit of his lovely form with his own rough, scarred one. But for now David gladly roves over his husband’s figure, exploring him with his mouth, his kisses increasingly desperate. First his jaw. Then the freckles on his neck. When David brings Diarmuid’s nipples to his mouth his husband shivers beneath him, but he barely has time to gasp before David moves down to lick at his stomach. The younger man must anticipate what will be the next focus of David’s adoration because he slowly parts his legs so that David can crawl between them.

His cock is hard and pink and David wants nothing more than to taste this part of his husband, but as he shifts Diarmuid begins to tremble once more. “ _David?_ ” he asks. He reaches for David and so with one hand David gently rubs his hip and the other he clasps with Diarmuid’s.

“I’ve got you,” David murmurs, sucking on the inside of Diarmuid’s thighs, beard brushing against his skin. It makes Diarmuid tremble in a different way; the remaining tension leaves his body as he breaks into a fit of giggles.

David grins. “Laughing at me?” he asks. “I thought you liked it when I did this.” He shakes Diarmuid’s thigh and presses another kiss to it.

“ _Ha_! Oh, I _do_ but you’re _tickling_ me.”

“How? When I do this?” He rubs his beard along the freckled leg and is rewarded with another round of giggles.

“Yes! Your _beard_ —“

Then David tightens his grip on Diarmuid’s hand and hip and asks, “What about when I do this?” and pulls his husband’s pretty cock into his mouth.

Diarmuid throws his head back against the pillows and _screams_. He writhes on the blankets as David holds him tight and sucks the precum from the head of his shaft. The drops on his tongue and the sweat on his husband’s skin are hot and slightly salty, his soft whimpers and gasps are sweet, and it’s all absolutely delicious, completely divine.

David moans around Diarmuid’s cock and Diarmuid shivers and cries, “Oh, God, oh, God, _oh my_ _God_ —“ and he thinks, dazed with lust and passion, _This is the first time I’ve heard him pray_.

With some reluctance he releases his hold on Diarmuid’s hand but it’s a fleeting. The grip on his husband’s hard, leaking shaft is even better as he immediately and seemingly unconsciously thrusts into his fist, moaning. With his breath puffing against Diarmuid’s cock, David asks, “Does that feel good, Diarmuid?”

“Yes, God, please, _David_ , please—don’t stop—“ He keens as David tongues at the slit on the head of his cock, wails when David takes the entire length of him in his mouth. “ _DAVID_!”

The entire castle must hear them. The thought is intoxicating. Everyone will know, now. He has been the Mute and maimed and broken men’s bodies, including his own, but here in this bedroom he is David, Diarmuid’s husband, a man who can bring ecstasy to his lover, can evoke his high, rapturous cries.

Suddenly Diarmuid is scrabbling at his hair. “David—David, I’m going to—“ It’s a warning that he pays no heed to, opting instead to bob his head along Diarmuid’s cock, determined to wring every single drop of cum from him.

Diarmuid arches his back and spills down David’s throat. He swallows it greedily, stroking Diarmuid’s thighs as he shudders through his orgasm. Only when he’s sure that his husband is completely spent, softening and over-sensitive in his mouth, does he gently pull away. The younger man is flushed and panting and so completely gorgeous—David cannot resist trying for another kiss. Diarmuid smiles and softly sighs, turning eagerly to him. David tastes Diarmuid’s cum and Diarmuid’s spit and feels his husband shift to embrace him and it’s bliss and he _aches_.

Diarmuid notices, too. “You, David?” His fingers tentatively stroke the side of David’s cock.

Groaning, David says, “Not going to last. Can I—“ He stops, uncertain and not a little embarrassed.

“What is it?”

“Let me—“ He swallows. He doesn’t have the words for this. “Let me—finish against you?” He brushes his hand up Diarmuid’s thigh and stomach.

“Oh, yes, please. I want to feel you, too.”

He crawls overtop Diarmuid, kissing him again, and presses their hips together. His husband’s skin soft skin is delightful friction against his long neglected cock. Their foreheads touch; Diarmuid’s eyes are dark, his expression one of hazy satisfaction. The thought that he did that—that he gave _his husband_ such pleasure—spurs the heat in David’s cock. He rolls his hips frantically against Diarmuid’s, dripping precum, panting and grunting.

“Can I?” Diarmuid asks and David has no idea what it is he wants but always, always, always, he’ll give it, he’ll allow it, anything for Diarmuid, and so he nods and then moans as Diarmuid reaches between them and takes him in his hand and strokes.

One—two—three—four pumps of his fist and David’s cum is coating Diarmuid’s fingers, his stomach. He collapses on top of the younger man, exhausted.

They hold each other on the bed, hot and sticky and spent and completely content.

“I’ll get a rag,” David says, eventually, “I need to clean you off.”

Diarmuid shakes his head. “Later.”

“They’ll have a bath ready—“

“Later,” his husband repeats. “Just stay here with me.”

David won’t argue with that. He says, “Okay,” and has Diarmuid nestle against his side as usual, an arm thrown around his waist. “How do you feel? Was that all right?”

He isn’t quite sure, but David thinks Diarmuid’s blushing redder now than he was when he was sucking his pretty cock. “I liked it,” his husband murmurs.

“It wasn’t too much?”

“No, I want—I’d like to do it again. If you’d like to.”

Chuckling, David says, “Later. I’d very much like to, but we’ll have to wait till later.” He gives Diarmuid’s shoulder a shake. “Your lord husband’s old.”

“You’re _not_!” Diarmuid cries, outraged.

“I’m an old husband and I’ll be an even older king.”

“You’ll be a _handsome_ king. They’ll call you David the Fair.”

“With my beautiful consort, Diarmuid the Blind.”

Diarmuid shrieks with laughter and buries himself in the crook of David’s neck, and David cannot contain the burst of joy in his heart either. They hold on to each other, laughing loudly.

He hopes the castle can hear that, too—their happiness with one another.


	8. The King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diarmuid ruminates on some changes in his routine. He finally receives word from Ciaran. Later, he and his husband get some very unexpected news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally getting back to this fic after Diarmute AU Week. I feel like I'm getting back into the groove of the story. Hopefully this chapter is just as enjoyable as the others.

In the days following his and David’s newfound intimacy Diarmuid still rises for prayers at the break of dawn as usual. He spends half an hour kneeling in the chapel, hands clasped together, thanking God for the path that They have set him upon. For all his fond memories of the monastery and his love of Ciaran Diarmuid is acutely aware that he would have made a terrible monk. His patience, his fidgeting, his constant chatter and questions, and his— _tendency_ to run off with the younger male visitors even if it was out of more honest curiosity than lust. And though he still misses the monastery terribly and waits for word from Ciaran, now as a young husband to a great lord he can be more involved in the community, in the people’s lives and their needs, and with all resources now available to him he can _help them_. It is a wonderful thing—praise God for Their wisdom.

And thanks be to Them for the love and care they have shown him for giving him David. His husband is so kind, so sweet, so _handsome_ , and Diarmuid adores him more and more every day.

Their first time together in bed has prompted a very welcome change in their morning routine. Now after his prayers are over Diarmuid rushes back to their bedchamber where his husband will be awake but _not_ dressed and they will spend the early morning hours kissing and rubbing against one another. He will never get enough of David’s hands roving over his body, so deliciously rough and yet so gentle with him, so careful, nor will he ever grow tired of husband’s lips upon his or his mouth around his member.

And—a blush creeps onto his face; these are such salacious thoughts, here in the sanctity of the chapel—and he likes it when David comes, and so far he thinks he likes it best when his husband straddles him and takes himself in his hand. He can watch the desperate pleasure on David’s face as he strokes himself, red-faced and panting, until he spills, hot and sticky, all over Diarmuid’s chest and stomach and thighs.

Only after David cleans the both of them up with a warm towel and they dress—or, in Diarmuid’s case, _redress_ —do they call for breakfast. A slice of herb and cheese quiche or oatmeal with cinnamon and cooked apples, a small bowl of fruit—ripe blackberries and raspberries, or a shiny pile of dark red pomegranate seeds—and always with fresh baked bread accompanied by a pat of rich, creamy, yellow butter. Mint tea with honey is their choice of drink in the morning hours; its flavor is light and refreshing and with the added bonus of being both good for David’s throat and more acceptable to his palate than the black tea.

And before they leave the bedchamber for their routine tasks there is always a kiss, deep and slow and languid, so that their day begins with the lingering taste of each other on their lips.

* * *

There are never any letters from his father and for that he is glad. In his prayers Diarmuid thanks both his parents for bringing him into the world, thanks his father for his tireless machinations that resulted in his marriage to David, and thanks God that he has not seen the man since his husband threw him out of the castle. Diarmuid hopes that he has a long, happy life far away from him.

He receives regular communication from his sisters. Cera’s letters are always perfumed. Diarmuid, with his fine, neat handwriting, has taken over writing the responses to David’s correspondence as his husband dictates to him. His sister-in-law does the same with Cera’s replies. David is blunt bordering on tactless at times, and he’s often frustrated with other nobles, but the most Diarmuid has to deal with is heavy sighs and a great deal of grumbling.

His eldest sister, on the other hand, sees insult and criticism in near every sentence and responds in kind. Diarmuid does not envy his sister-in-law’s task of tempering her wife’s aggression into something that will not cause a blood feud, but she does an admirable job with her lovely scented parchment, elegant penmanship, and careful editing of her wife’s words.

Tadhg and Eoin’s actions toward David and their half-baked scheme to abscond with Diarmuid seems to have enraged Cera to the point that not even her beloved wife could paraphrase her fury. Diarmuid had written to her detailing their brothers’ plans and almost immediately received a letter back; it smelt of lavender and every refined, ornate letter was filled with Cera’s ire. In between (frankly blasphemous) curses she’d assured Diarmuid that the two men would be severely upbraided for their _“monstrous stupidity_ _and grave insult to both your marriage and your husband_.”

Aoife had also been sympathetic. She’d let Diarmuid know that he and David were always welcome to visit her at her home with her family at anytime—so long as they gave some prior notice, as her husband tended to get work himself into a tizzy over having guests. She’d signed the letter _“your favorite sister, Aoife”_ and stamped it with her official seal. Below it, at the bottom of the parchment, was Young Aoife’s handprint in ink with a small addendum: “ _And with love from your favorite niece, as well.”_

The matter’s been thoroughly discussed with David; when Diarmuid’s feeling a bit more settled they can leave the castle in Rua’s capable hands and visit Aoife and her family, and then they can make their way to the monastery. Diarmuid’s eager for the trip, because in the months since he’s left there’s still been no word at all from Ciaran.

Every day Diarmuid writes him a letter. When he was still in his family’s castle, anxiously awaiting his wedding day and wondering what his husband would be like, his letters had been filled with fearful thoughts and often splotched with tears. Now they are pleasantly inane—just variations of his daily routine. Diarmuid dutifully recounts what he ate for breakfast, the books he’s read in the library, his progress with horse riding (improving, somewhat), the meals he’s put together in the kitchen under the cook’s stern supervision, and a detailed record of the gifts that David has gotten him.

So far Diarmuid’s been presented with a proper riding outfit, a fine new hat to keep the sun out of his eyes when he works in the garden, half a bushel of fresh, shiny, crisp red apples to cook with or just to nibble on when he’s hungry, a constant rotation of bouquets that liven up their bedchamber when fresh and become potpourri or compost for the garden when wilted.

Then there’s the jewelry.

Diarmuid has a feeling that if he allowed it David would shower him in precious gemstones. But he has no fondness for ostentatious, heavy pieces of jewelry whose only purpose is to flaunt wealth—the one thing he has refused David is his desire to cover Diarmuid in diamonds and rubies and sapphires.

“It’d be too much, David,” he’d said, surprised at how morose his husband looked, “There’s no need for them, and I’d look silly besides.”

David had kissed his hand. “You’d look beautiful. You always look so beautiful. But you really don’t want anything? I can get you whatever you’d like.” His sigh had tugged at Diarmuid’s heartstrings; David looked rather like a reprimanded puppy.

He finally agreed to a few small pieces to wear for special occasions. A week or so later David proudly presented him with a velvet lined jewelry box. Diarmuid sifted through it with admiration. A tiara with curling gold vines and leaves wrought in gold and dotted with strawberries carved from coral. A choker, a pair of earrings, and a couple of bracelets, all made from pearls. And a gold ring set with a shimmering opal and a matching pair of similarly iridescent teardrop opal earrings.

“Oh, David,” he’d murmured, “These are so lovely.”

“You like them, then?”

Diarmuid smiled. “Yes. They’re exactly what I asked for. You know me so well.”

His husband preened. “Put them on?” David had asked. “Let’s see what they look like on you.”

And so Diarmuid had modeled his pretty jewelry for his husband with a smile and a twirl. Then, upon further suggestion from David, he’d worn _just_ his pretty jewelry and a smile and crawled right into his eager husband’s lap to thank him properly.

Obviously that bit had not gone into his letter to Ciaran. The monastery doesn’t need to know _every_ aspect of his marriage. Just that David cares for him and makes him happy.

* * *

He’s in the library leafing through a book on beekeeping and scrutinizing instructions on how to build a beehive out of straw—the monastery had a small apiary, and Diarmuid would dearly like his own source of honey—when Rua drops a stack of letters and a heavy parcel onto the desk.

“Solved the communication issue, Diarmuid. Your letters were being delivered. The monastery’s letters were being stopped at the border.” Rua looks extremely pleased with himself.

Diarmuid smiles as he takes the letters into his hands. It’s a hefty pile; Ciaran’s surely been writing to Diarmuid as often as Diarmuid’s been writing to him. “David was right. I just had to be more patient. What was the problem at the border? Some sort of tariff?”

Rua clears his throat. “Well. It appears that, uh. Your father was holding them back.”

“What?” Diarmuid stares at the advisor in shock. “W-why? What reason would he have to do that?”

“Your father spent a lot of time and resources arranging your marriage. It needed to be a success. It was his thinking that if you received any letters from the monastery then you’d be—well, homesick, I suppose.”

He might just be imagining it, but the pile of parchment smells slightly of the herbs and spices of Ciaran’s apothecary and the monastery’s beeswax candles. He brushes his fingertips along the bundle’s edges. “I was already homesick,” he says, quietly. “It would have been nice to have had these in the weeks before the wedding, when I was scared and lonely.”

The sharp lines of Rua’s face soften. “I’m sorry for it, Diarmuid. I think the concern was that you might either be so distraught as to refuse the marriage and demand to be returned to the monastery, or that you and Ciaran might concoct some sort of plan for you to run away and escape back to the monks.”

Diarmuid hums in acknowledgement. He stares at the letters in his hands, musing over Rua’s words. So instead of simply being distraught and homesick, his father had made it so that he was distraught, homesick, and feeling very much abandoned and alone. Perhaps with Ciaran’s advice he might not have been so frightened at the wedding and what would come after. It would’ve saved him and David a great deal of time and tears.

But, well, what’s done is done, and everything worked out in the end. With a shrug, he asks, “I suppose they got lost in the shuffle after the wedding?”

Rua clears his throat again, his expression one of distinct discomfort. “It appears that after the incident the morning after the hunt he chose to…forget to rescind the order to waylay the letters.”

“Ah,” says Diarmuid, “That certainly sounds like my father.”

“If I may be so bold, my lord?”

“Yes?”

“Your father’s a fucking prick.”

Diarmuid bursts out laughing. “Oh, well, goodness. God forgive me, but I won’t disagree.”

“I don’t think even They can begrudge you that.” Rua smiles. “I’ll leave you to it, my lord. You’ve quite a bit of reading to do.”

* * *

The first letter was written only a few days after Diarmuid’s departure from the monastery.

_My dear boy,_

_You took part of my heart when you left. I saw it clinging to you as you disappeared over the horizon in your brothers’ cart. Make sure to feed yourself well, and to get enough rest, and enjoy yourself when you can. By caring for yourself you will also care for me._

_The monastery keenly feels your absence. It is far too quiet and everyone dislikes it greatly. Brother Bressel had to wrangle the cows himself for the first time in nearly a decade. And I now have no stalwart companion to keep me company and assist me in the garden or the apothecary._

_Do you remember how you used to run around during our prayers? You would tug on our rosaries and robes until I made you come stand with me. Always moving, always curious._

_I know you are greatly upset with this sudden change in your life. I do not mean to add to your distress with my nostalgia and loneliness. But just know that you are my boy. I sewed and hemmed your robes, I bandaged your cuts, I watched over you when you were ill, and now, like children are wont to do, you have grown up and are getting married and will have a life separate from mine. I will do as all parents must one day do, and simply write to you with all the love I have in me._

_It pained me greatly to see you leave and it still pains me now as I write you this letter, but I also feel heartened because soon you will read it and think of me. I pray that your journey is safe, I pray that your family welcomes you back with open arms, I pray that your husband is kind and loving, and I pray that you are happy._

_God bless you, Diarmuid._

_Brother Ciaran_

Diarmuid smiles and wipes his eyes and kisses Ciaran’s signature scrawled in long-dried, black ink and presses the letter to his heart. Then, he carefully folds it and sets it aside and moves on to the next one, and the next. It pleases him that the contents of Ciaran’s letters are much like his own, filled with the day-to-day life of the monastery, mentioning every monk’s health, chronicling Brother Bressel’s renewed struggles with the livestock, how the garden is growing, when the day is particularly hot or rainy.

Ciaran realized early on that their communication was one-way.

_You don’t address the subjects in any of my letters, yet nearly every week I receive more messages from you. Perhaps the couriers in this area are worse than I thought. I will continue writing, of course—you shall certainly get them one day, and what else is there for me to do? I will tell you a secret: no one here is as wonderful a conversation partner as you, Diarmuid. If I do not put my thoughts of the day’s events to ink, then I will burst with all the observations I have not shared._

_It always pleases me greatly to hear about your little niece. She sounds much like you did as a child—curious and sweet natured._

There is a shift in tone that occurs in the letters written after the wedding; a palpable relief as Diarmuid wrote to Ciaran, ecstatic, that David was gentle and handsome and had protected him during the ceremony and doted upon him at the banquet, and that he had been kind to him on their wedding night and all they had done was talk and sleep.

_Praise be to God for Their love and mercy. I had so worried about your wedding day. I cannot overstate how grateful and relieved I am that you’ve a husband who is considerate of your fears and desires. It is of greatest comfort to me to know that you are well and happy. I love you so._

Eventually Diarmuid reads through the entire pile of letters and the only thing left to do is open the parcel. Ciaran had mentioned it a few times—a wedding gift from the monastery.

The shape of it and the sound that it had made when Rua dropped it onto the desk indicate what it is. Diarmuid carefully unwraps it and finds his assumption accurate.

A prayer book.

The cover is a fine example of leatherwork. It’s a carved scene of the view of the sea from the beach near the monastery, where Diarmuid spent his much of his free time. He runs his fingers over the grooves, admiring the craftsmanship. Then he opens the book, smiling as he’s greeted with page after page of illuminations and carefully copied prayers and hymns and stories. Every new page brings another set of handwriting and a slightly different style of art. This was no doubt a collaboration between every brother in the monastery.

Diarmuid’s suspicions are proven correct when he nears the end of the book. It is slightly lengthier than other prayer books he’s seen. The extra pages have him curious.

After the last page of hymns there is a message written in Ciaran’s hand:

_This book of hours is dedicated to a young novice whose life path diverged from ours. We have humbly put together this collection of prayers for him and have also had the temerity to include in this additional section the memories we have of his time with us._

_Diarmuid, may this be a fitting present for your marriage. You might not have become a brother at the monastery, but you will always be a child in our hearts. Let this book be both a devotion to God and a record of our love for you._

_Brother Ciaran_

Blinking back tears, Diarmuid turns the page and finds a recollection from every monk who helped raise him. Brother Trian wrote of the first day they took him to the beach and dipped his chubby legs into the water and how he’d shrieked with glee. Brother Bressel extols his virtues for having the patience and hardiness to deal with the cows. The abbot admires his gentle nature and his curiosity as well as his ability to sneak sweets from the kitchen.

He reads through each page, smiling so hard his cheeks hurt, until he reaches the end of the book.

Ciaran’s entry is the very last.

_I could fill another book with my memories of your childhood and our time together. Each day with you was a gift from God. But I fondly remember a time when you could only fall asleep in my arms._

_All of my love, always._

Diarmuid shuts the book with a snap before his tears can splatter the pages. It is a silly thing, really, he thinks, sniffling. There is nothing to cry over. Ciaran is fine. Hearty and healthy. They will now get each other’s letters in a timely, uninterrupted manner. And the brothers at the monastery have given him such a lovely, wonderful, _beautiful_ gift. That they’ve put this together for him—it fills his heart with joy. But at the same time it makes him _ache_.

He wants—he heaves a sob and buries his head in his arms, crying in earnest on the polished mahogany desk—it’s silly and _stupid_ , because he and David have even planned a trip to the monastery, but that could be ages away and he wants nothing more right now than to stand and sing prayers in the chapel he grew up in, or forage for oak galls to make the night-black ink for their manuscripts, or just sit beside Ciaran and _talk to him_ and say “ _I’ve gotten your letters, finally, and I love you, too, of course, I love you so much, you’re the only parent I’ve ever had and I miss you all the time.”_

He’ll have to write him back as soon as possible. Thank him for his advice and his stories and his patience and love. Diarmuid should start right now—or, well, as soon as he can stop crying and tears don’t blur his vision. He ought to send a gift as well. Not only to Ciaran, but to all the monks. Something they could all enjoy. Maybe—maybe candied citrus peels, from the kitchen’s stock of limes and lemons and oranges. Pretty, and colorful, and sweet, and Diarmuid’s fairly certain they’d keep on a long trek provided the parcel doesn’t get damp. He sniffles and wipes at his eyes. A nice wooden box to hold the candy, wrapped in a sturdy cloth that can be reused for a sewing project, or—

“Diarmuid?” He looks up to find David staring at him with concern. “Rua told me he gave you your letters. Have you—received bad news?”

Ah, he’s worried his husband once more. Diarmuid shakes his head. “No, I just.” He cannot stop his lip from quivering. “I just really miss Ciaran and it was so nice to read his letters and then—my wedding present—“

He pushes the prayer book toward David, who briefly admires the cover before carefully paging through it. He makes an approving noise at the quality of the copied hymns and prayers. When he gets to the last section of the book, however, his expression goes remarkably tender.

David’s smile is soft as he reads Ciaran’s entry. “You were a very sweet child, Diarmuid.”

“I think it’s my absence that has sweetened their memories.” Diarmuid lets out a soft laugh. “I was a terror, to be sure.”

His husband snorts. “Impossible.”

Diarmuid stands and embraces his husband. “I’m sorry for worrying you. I didn’t mean to have you come find me.” A thought occurs to him. “Wait, why did you—what time is it? Oh, no! I’m so sorry, David, I completely missed the petitioners—“

“It’s fine,” David assures him, “You were reading your letters. And you don’t need to keep me company in the great hall every day.”

“I like to, though. I want to help you when I can.”

David kisses his forehead. “You help me plenty. It’s all right to take some time to yourself.”

His husband’s arms are always so warm and comforting. Diarmuid snuggles against David’s chest. “I think—I’ll tend the garden a bit and then—and then I’ll write Ciaran back. I’d like to give him and the other monks a gift. Do we still have citrus fruits in the kitchen?”

Immediately, David answers, “If we don’t, then I’ll get them for you. However much you need.”

“Well, maybe a bag of each—oranges, lemons, and limes.” Diarmuid worries his lip between his teeth. “And we’ll need quite a bit of sugar— _mmph!_ ”

David presses their lips together in a firm kiss. “See to the onion sprouts. Then write your letter. I’ll have Rua add your ingredients to this month’s expenses. We’ve a meeting tonight, anyway.” There’s a grumble in his voice at this last statement, as if going over the accounts with Rua isn’t how he would rather spend his time.

Diarmuid giggles. He runs his hands over David’s chest. “I’ll wait up for you. Since I missed our time together in the great hall today.” Feeling a little bold, he says, “I’ll take a hot bath and then I could—I could wear my pearls for you. Just, um—just the pearls?”

He gasps as David gives his bottom a squeeze and pulls him in for another kiss.

Then he’s left dazed and befuddled as David abruptly turns and begins marching out of the library. “Where are you going?”

“To Rua,” his husband growls, “Sooner I finish with these accounts, the sooner I can see to _you_.”

* * *

The garden is growing well. Diarmuid has high hopes for their crop of onions. He’ll make soup, or a savory tart. He could surprise David for dinner some night.

When he returns to their bedchamber he requests hot water for a bath. The tub is filled as he pens his response to Ciaran, letting him know that he has finally received all his letters and explaining his father’s actions.

_God have mercy on him_ , Diarmuid writes, _His ambitions have made him cruel, and he’s driven his children away. He is clawing his way to the upper rungs of society for the future of a family that wants nothing to do with him._

He gives his sincere thanks for the wedding present. _It is beautifully made. I adore it. Reading all of your kind words had me weeping in the library. Poor David! He was so worried when he found me. But I have decided on a good gift for you all, I think, and he has agreed to help me procure all the necessary ingredients. That is your only hint! You may guess but I will not tell you what it is!_

After detailing the garden’s progress and closing the letter with an eager request that Ciaran write back as soon as he can, Diarmuid makes his way to the bath.

This seems like a night to use the scented oil—the one that smells warm and sensuous with its hints of cinnamon and black pepper and sandalwood and what Diarmuid now knows is bergamot. He’s experimented with a number of the little vials on the shelf, but it’s this one that has David’s pupils dilate, has him kissing and sucking at Diarmuid’s neck as he breathes in the scent.

He hums as he rubs the washcloth over his skin, fantasizing about his husband returning to find him warm and flushed on the bed wearing only the pearl choker and pearl earrings. Would it be too much to add the matching bracelets? But maybe David would find the sensation of them on Diarmuid’s wrists as he runs his fingers through his thick, dark hair enjoyable—

An urgent knock on the door startles him out of his thoughts. “My lord? Are you, uh. Are you decent? It’s important.” The guard sounds flustered. Diarmuid’s noticed that many of the servants and staff are nervous around him, and he suspects it’s either because he’s still a new member of the household or that they’re uncertain how to treat someone who grew up at a monastery. Or perhaps a combination of both. But there’s an undercurrent of anxiety in the guard’s tone that has Diarmuid climbing out of the tub. The water sloshes to the floor, spilling over the mosaic tiles.

“Just one moment, please.” Diarmuid dries himself off as quickly as he can and throws on his bathrobe, tying a bow loosely at the front. “What’s happened?” he asks the guards when he opens the door.

The two men stammer and talk over one another.

“Lord David and Rua are in the study—“

“Riders, from the Capital—“

Diarmuid holds up a hand. “Please, just one of you speak.”

After a pause, one of the guards takes a deep breath and says, “Officials from the Capital have arrived. They’ve been traveling nonstop for days. Lord David and Rua are speaking to them in the study. Your presence has been requested.”

“Oh, goodness,” Diarmuid murmurs, “Do you have any idea what’s happened?”

He shakes his head. “No, my lord. We were just told to inform you that you’re needed.”

Diarmuid nods. It doesn’t matter what the issue is—in these types of situations his duty is to support David in any way he can. “I’ll be out in a moment. I just need to get dressed.”

He shuts the door as a beet-red color crawls up the men’s faces.

Something simple, that he can get into by himself, but still neat and elegant. Diarmuid chooses a light blue gown that hangs off his shoulders with long, flowing sleeves. He ties a white sash around his waist and searches for his white slippers. Diarmuid hasn’t worn the pair since his wedding, but they will go with his outfit nicely. He steps into them; they’re still soft and light.

At the very least, Diarmuid muses, he can wear his pearls for David while they sit through whatever pressing matter has arrived from the Capital. He pulls the choker and earrings from his jewelry box and puts them on.

He’s dressed very quickly, but as he looks in the mirror Diarmuid is pleased with his appearance. There’s a sort of wide-eyed, youthful look about his face that’s stayed with him well into adulthood. The cut of his gown and the pearls around his neck and hanging from his ears give him a more mature, dignified air. Like a more fitting companion for David, whose stern and stoic expression commands respect.

Diarmuid opens the bedchamber doors. “I’m ready. Please, take me to my husband.”

* * *

It’s late _,_ Diarmuid thinks as they rush to David’s study. The night creeps in through the windows, the candles in their sconces illuminating the passageways with their glow. What could be so urgent at this time of night?

Surely not another war? The very thought almost makes Diarmuid’s heart stop. But what else would bring a group of men from the Capital in such haste? The King would want David at his side once more, but—but David’s not picked up a sword in years, not since the end of the last war, and sometimes he grows nervous in loud, crowded rooms, and he’ll strain his voice again if he has to yell commands and Diarmuid will not be there to make sure he drinks his tea and honey and—

What will Diarmuid do, if his husband has to leave? He bites his lip to stop it from quivering. He cannot cry now. He cries too easily. Sad tears, happy years. Whatever the matter at hand, whatever his husband decides, he will be David’s support just as David as been his.

He straightens his posture. There’s a cacophony of voices coming from within the study—muffled shouts and even louder pleas for calm.

The guards open the doors and Diarmuid walks in with his held high and his shoulders back, steady in every step.

His husband’s study is filled with strangers. They’re exhausted, haggard, their clothes stained with mud and rainwater and sweat, their faces red with rage or pale with fear. Rua stands in the middle of the room, as agitated as Diarmuid’s ever seen him.

And there is David, standing by his desk, still as a statue, ashen-faced and silent.

The men bow deeply, falling to one knee, as he strides past them to David’s side. This is new. Should he address them? What is the protocol for this? He ought to have studied etiquette more instead of researching beekeeping. But up close he can see that David’s eyes are red-rimmed, his expression one of heavy grief, and he can focus on nothing but his husband’s comfort.

“What’s happened, my lord?” he asks, softly. “Why are you in such distress?”

David takes Diarmuid’s hand in his and very, very gently squeezes it. “The king is dead.”

A gasp escapes his throat. “Oh, David—how?” The king had been lively, and quite young—roughly David’s age. A hunting accident? Too much drink?

Rua says, “Murdered. By Raymond de Merville. A major disagreement over the king’s heir, it appears.” He gives Diarmuid a wan smile.

“The treacherous bastard,” one of the men growls. “His own cousin. Willing to kill king and kin and throw the nation into tumult.”

Another states, “Only reprobates stand with him—his ilk from the war. That band of thieves and criminals. They’ll meet the executioner’s axe.”

“They’ll meet God’s will. Blessed be the day that our former regent saw fit to name the Mute as his heir. There is no one better to mete out punishment to this would-be usurper.”

“ _His Majesty_ will bring the criminal de Merville to justice and keep peace in this land!”

“Long live the king!” one of the group shouts.

His words start a chorus, a chant unlike any hymn that Diarmuid has ever heard. “Long live the king!” they shout, “Long live the king!”

Rua repeats, quiet and grim, “Long live the king.”

David looks overwhelmed. This is too much—Diarmuid knows this is too much for him. The news is terrible and shocking enough, but this room of strangers, clamoring for blood and for David to be the one to spill it—he can see it even if they can’t, how his husband tenses, how his breathing starts to quicken and his eyes start to lose focus.

With shaking hands, Diarmuid gently takes hold of either side of David’s face. He presses their foreheads together, blocking his husband’s view of the others in the room just as David did on their wedding day when it was Diarmuid who was frightened.

“I am here,” Diarmuid whispers, “And I am with you, husband. Whatever might follow, whatever course you choose, I will be at your side.”

Tears spill from David’s eyes. Diarmuid brushes one from his cheek with his thumb. He kisses his husband’s forehead, his nose, his trembling lips.

“Long live the king,” Diarmuid declares, firm and clear. 


	9. The Wolf's Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> David must leave Diarmuid in order to bring Raymond to justice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think as I get closer to the end of the fic it becomes harder to write. This chapter was especially tough. I hope you enjoy reading it! We've got two more chapters left!

Diarmuid’s hand does not leave his. Their fingers stay entwined as he stands at David’s side, obviously aggrieved by the news he's received but still calm, collected, and so, so beautiful. The very image of a king’s consort.

David needs to make sure, then, that he is the very image of a king. When Diarmuid wiped the tears from his eyes he’d also cleared the fog from David’s mind. The former king is dead, murdered by his and David’s own cousin. These men, these advisors only vaguely familiar to him, arrived here to inform him of his new status as well as look to him for guidance—for the next step. And Rua is here, sage advice no doubt ready to burst from his lips, as is Diarmuid, his beloved husband who gives David all the courage he needs with a squeeze of his hand and a small, soft smile.

He lets out a breath that he didn’t know he was holding. Once he commanded soldiers into battle, but it’s been a long, long time since he’s lead and now he’s not in charge of a battalion but the fate of an entire people in a kingdom that’s just experienced a regicide. This will be difficult. Stressful. But someone has to deal with the problem and it ought to be him. David clears his throat and barks out questions as if he is at the edge of the battlefield once more, standing in the king’s tent, poring over battlefield notes and maps of enemy forces and interrogating his scouts for information.

“Where has de Merville gone?” he asks. The sharpness in his tone and the volume of his voice makes the group jump.

One of the advisors answers, “We’re not entirely certain, Your Majesty. But we do know that he’s friendly with few of the men he fought with during the war, and some have declared their allegiance to him. More than likely he’s with one of them.”

David nods. “Get me a list of these men and map out their lands. Look for his closest ally. You said it was a three-day ride to get to here from the Capital at breakneck pace. Assume de Merville was riding just as fast. Whose land would he flee to?” A younger advisor nods and scurries off with a guard for parchment and paper. David continues. “Should I be worried about his claim to the throne?”

This sends the group into another round of excited muttering but Rua answers with his usual bluntness. “Considering he’s also a cousin he might’ve had a leg to stand on. He could’ve challenged the line of succession and we’d all be having a very dull conversation whilst staring at your family tree, trying to find the relations who’ve been removed and once-removed and tracing marriages and so on and so forth. But he’s gone and killed the king in cold blood and run. Forget the regicide for a moment—he’s still a murderer on the lam. Anyone who assists him are aiding and abetting a dangerous criminal. Once news of that reaches the countryside I don’t think he’ll be able to garner much more support, my lord. Er, Your Majesty.”

Yes, Rua’s right, as usual. If he’d bided his time, scrutinized their family lines, wooed allies—Raymond might’ve successfully challenged David’s claim to the throne. But the murder of the king and his subsequent flight from the Capital indicate that none of this was planned. More than likely their fool of a king got drunk once more and let slip the news that he’d chosen the heir to the throne—just as he’d done those months ago when he’d happily told David that he’d arranged a marriage for him by stealing novice from a monastery—and Raymond had gone into a rage and killed him then and there in his quarters.

They need to curb any support that might be available to him. David says, “He might have a few allies. Let’s not give him any more. Put a bounty of his head. Give him no place to rest. No one to turn to. Let nowhere be safe.”

An older advisor, gray and bearded, chuckles without humor. “I see, Your Majesty. May he bear the wolf’s head.” David nods.

The label means more than being an outlaw—to bear the wolf’s head means to be an outcast, a pariah, a danger to others that’s to be hunted and killed by anyone who dares get close.

“He’s more a rabid dog than anything else,” David growls. There’s a special danger in men like Raymond, who act only to satisfy their own desires and lash out when something is denied to them. But David has killed both man and beast in his life, and if he now must slay a monster than so be it. Raymond should’ve been put down long ago.

He must be losing focus again because Diarmuid gives his hand another squeeze. David brings his husband’s fingers to his lips and kisses them. “Announce it, then. The king’s murder. That Raymond de Merville bears a wolf’s head. That I won’t have my coronation until he’s dead. And that—“ He pauses and looks into Diarmuid’s dark, honey-colored eyes. “And that I’ll be leaving tomorrow to hunt him down myself.”

For one brief moment Diarmuid’s expression crumples but then he quickly schools his face back into impassivity. His grip on David’s hand tightens, as if he’s afraid that he will suddenly disappear from the study. When he speaks his voice is steady and quiet. “Would you have me prepare supplies for your journey, Your Majesty?” Diarmuid asks. David realizes that it’s the men in the room he’s actually addressing, making it known to them that he supports his husband’s decision, that he’s ready to assist him in any way he can.

“No, Diarmuid,” David replies with a shake of his head. “It’s late. You must rest.”

Rua says, “We all ought to sleep. There’s nothing more we can do tonight but speculate about the morning, and you’ve had a trying last few days, my lords. I’ll let the kitchen staff and the stable master that you’ll be departing tomorrow, Your Majesty.”

Diarmuid releases David’s hand. “Let me at least have your rooms prepared, my lords.”

“Your Royal Highness, there is no need—“

“Oh, please, let me help in some way.” He turns to David, his big brown eyes wide and pleading, and it is so late and they’ll have to get up early in the morning and Diarmuid needs to sleep, but he has never denied his husband any request and he will not start now.

David presses a kiss to his husband’s lips. “As you will.”

“I’ll wait for you, husband,” Diarmuid murmurs. Then he turns, inclines his head to the crowd of advisors, and strides out of the room, the fine material of his gown rustling softly and his dangling pearl earrings swaying with every stride.

One of the men says, very carefully, “Your Majesty must be very pleased with this union.”

He can’t help the smile the crosses his face. David can never help but smile when he thinks about Diarmuid. His husband thinks God brought them together. He’s said it many a time. As they lay pressed together in bed, skin still hot and flushed from their exertions. Working in the garden, pulling at weeds, dirt under his nails and the sun in his face. Relaxing in the bath, head tucked under David’s chin, eyes closed and humming. David isn’t sure God has anything to do with it, but he errs on the side of caution. He quietly thanks God for Their divine intervention when he holds Diarmuid in his arms at night, lulled to sleep by his soft snores.

David’s extremely pleased with his marriage. He’s happier than he has any right to be. He’s never been a man for flowery turns of phrases, has always shirked from speeches and discussions at court. This characteristic suits him just fine in his married life, because he loves Diarmuid beyond words.

And tomorrow, for the first time since their wedding day, he will have to leave him.

* * *

When he finally returns to their room Diarmuid is not dozing in bed as he expected. Instead, his husband is gazing out the window in David’s velvet tunic, which has long since been repurposed into Diarmuid’s favorite nightgown. It’s beautiful on him; he always looks so warm and comfortable wearing it, the color is becoming against his pale, freckled skin, and it leaves his long legs on display.

The pearls are sitting on David’s desk, a small pile of precious gems next to sheets of parchment.

David puts his hands on Diarmuid’s shoulders and kisses his cheek. “What are you looking at?”

“Just the stars,” Diarmuid softly replies. “I wasn’t sure if you still wanted me to wear the pearls. I can, if you want. Do you—are you in the mood?”

If it had been any other time, any other day, and David would’ve gladly taken him up on the offer so that they could enjoy one another’s touch. But the king’s been murdered, there’s a crowd of strangers in the castle, the both of them are exhausted, and by tomorrow evening they will have already said their goodbyes.

How long will it take to root out Raymond and his allies? First he has to find his treacherous cousin and kill him, and then those that declared their support for his cause must be dealt with. And a siege must be avoided. Diarmuid’s little garden is still growing, but most of the crops have been harvested now. Any responsible lord is going to have a castle well stocked for winter. God, what a mess. This could take _months_ if they make a mistake.

It’s agony to imagine being away for that long. There will be no morning love-making, no breakfast and talk afterward, no kisses goodbye, no happy updates about the garden or the latest research in the library as they ready for a bath, no small, soft, warm body clinging to him throughout the night.

David pulls Diarmuid into a tight embrace. “Do you remember our wedding night?” he asks. “All you wanted was to kiss and talk.”

“I do,” Diarmuid replies.

“That’s all I want now. I just want to kiss you, and hold you, and fall asleep to your voice. Can we do that?”

Diarmuid smiles. “Oh, yes, of course, David.”

It’s almost shocking, the difference in their behavior. On their wedding night David had been stressed beyond belief, worried about frightening his new husband, scared that he might make him uncomfortable, and Diarmuid had been shy and confused and uncertain about David's wants as well as his own. But the both of them had been so hopeful that they could make their marriage work.

Now Diarmuid undresses him with practiced ease, waiting until David’s taken off his boots before unbuttoning his vest and freeing him of his shirt, carefully wrapping and setting his belt on the chair as David steps out of his pants.

“Now you,” David says. It’s a laughably easy task. Diarmuid doesn’t even have his stockings on; he’s naked underneath the velvet tunic. But as David helps him shrug the piece of clothing off he’s struck, as always, by his husband’s beauty. His skin dotted with freckles, his brown curls, his large, dark eyes, his long legs. But he’s changed a bit; Diarmuid stands taller now, more confidently, and he’s a little fuller than he was when they first met—the result of a healthy appetite no longer stymied by monastic asceticism. More for David to hold and adore. And now all the tremulousness is gone from his expression; the trust in his eyes is accompanied by desire and affection.

The sight of his husband naked and relaxed, unashamed and eager for his touch, is one that David will never tire of.

He puts places his hands on Diarmuid’s bare hips. “There you are,” David says with a grin.

Diarmuid smiles and spreads his arms wide. “Here I am!”

His husband cries out in delight when David picks him up—he’s still so light—and twirls him around. Diarmuid’s laughter is one of the sweetest sounds in the world, David thinks as he places him onto the bed. He kisses every inch of his husband, runs his hands over him, tries to soak up all the little happy noises Diarmuid makes and the feeling of his body against his, all warmth and goodness like sunlight against his skin.

His husband merely clings to him and allows him to indulge in the scent and feeling of his body, giggling occasionally when David’s beard brushes against a particularly ticklish spot. Yes, this is what he wanted, David muses with a sigh against Diarmuid’s stomach. His lovely husband, comfortable and laughing, basking in David’s love. Tomorrow they’ll be sleeping without one another and only God knows how long it will take for them to be together again, but at least they’ll have this gentle night of kisses and touches and laughter to make the days following less lonely.

“David, kiss me, please?” Diarmuid asks. David’s mouth has not left his skin since they’ve gotten into the bed, but he knows that Diarmuid means that he wants a kiss pressed to his lips. Ever obedient, David shifts so that he can leave a trail of kisses up Diarmuid’s chest to his neck to each corner of his mouth and then to his pretty, pink lips.

It’s a different kind of desire—a need to just simply hold Diarmuid, to pour his affection into every kiss and caress.

Eventually he simply rests against Diarmuid, their foreheads pressed together, their breathing in sync, his husband gently stroking his back.

“You said you wanted to talk,” Diarmuid murmurs. “What did you want to talk about?”

David rolls off of him and settles against the pillows, pulling Diarmuid into his side to cuddle as they always do. What to discuss? Something happy and sweet. Something to think about in their time apart—to look forward to.

He asks, “What will you show me first when we get to the monastery?”

Diarmuid’s face lights up. God, how beautiful he is. “Oh! We’ll have to meet the Abbot, first and foremost. And then Ciaran, of course, you must meet Ciaran. He’ll like you, don’t worry. And then the rest of the monks—Brother Bressel, Brother Trian, all of them… After we pray in the chapel maybe I could show you my old clochán? There won’t be much there, but—it’d be nice for you to see where I lived all those years. And—and then down to the beach? That was my favorite place. I'd like to watch the waves with you, David. Depending on when we go there might be seaweed on the shore. I could show you how we collect and dry it. We could make soup. I think you’d like it. With the vegetables and legumes it’s very filling, and Ciaran’s spices it’s so flavorful—“

It’s a wonderful image. Diarmuid’s childhood home, the people who raised him and loved him, the places he walked and ran and swam and spent his time, where he grew into the man that David adores with ever fiber of his being.

He pulls Diarmuid close so that his lips brush his husband’s ear. “Diarmuid?”

Diarmuid looks up at him through long, dark lashes and with a contented smile. “Hm?”

“I love you.”

His husband stills in his arms. His eyes grow wide, his smile wider. “You—you do?”

Of course David does. How could he not? It’s impossible to not love Diarmuid. But he repeats, as softly as he can with his broken, ruined voice that his husband doesn’t seem to mind at all, “I love you.”

Diarmuid’s expression transforms into something remarkably gentle and tender. “ _Oh_. Oh, David. I love you, too. You know that, right? I love you _so much_.”

With a shaking hand he cups Diarmuid’s cheek. He runs his thumb along Diarmuid’s lower lip, plump and moist from their kissing. “I know. And I’m happy. I’m so happy you love me.”

His husband says, quite seriously, “How could I not love you, David?”

Pure joy wells up inside David’s heart. It bubbles out of his throat in a peal of laughter. His lips find Diarmuid’s once more and he kisses him again, and again, and again.

Tomorrow will come, but tonight is theirs.

* * *

In the morning Diarmuid resolutely goes to the chapel for prayers. “I’ll pray to God for your health, and your safety, and that you complete your task in a timely manner, and that you will come back to me shortly.”

They eat breakfast in the great hall, which is already aflutter with activity by the time they arrive. The kitchen staff prepares supplies for David’s departure while also feeding the group of misplaced advisors. Diarmuid frets over David’s supply of victuals, the clothing he’ll wear, his medical supplies, pressing kisses to his jaw in between various worries.

“I’m packing tea leaves,” Diarmuid says as he spoons piles of earthy, aromatic black tea leaves into a small container, “I know you don’t care for the taste, David, but Cathal said it was the best for your throat. Goodness, I can wrap up a few lemons as well, but how am I going to get the honey in there—would a small jar be too cumbersome? I don’t want it to break and leave you with a mess to clean.”

“You’re aware that His Majesty isn’t going on a picnic, yes, Your Royal Highness?” Rua asks. David shushes him. He cherishes each concern and comment, every little extra luxury Diarmuid places into his satchel. His husband loves him and wants only for him to stay safe and healthy so that he might return and hold him in his arms once more.

The light streaming in through the great hall’s windows catches Diarmuid just so; when he looks up at David with a small jar of honey carefully wrapped in linen for safekeeping his curls are almost auburn in the light, his big, brown doe eyes are bright, and his lips slightly parted and shining and completely irresistible.

He puts the wrapped jar of honey safely in his satchel then cups Diarmuid’s face and pulls him in for a long, deep kiss. Diarmuid sighs against his mouth and melts into his arms. Rua makes a disgruntled noise and the rest of the household, by now quite used to their lords’ displays of affection, simply ignore them and go about their business, packing sun-dried fruits and meat and hazelnuts and wheels of hard, aged cheese for the journey.

The advisors, however, don’t know what to make of it. When he and Diarmuid part they’re staring at the two of them from their table, their faces shocked and flustered and scandalized.

The younger advisor who’d gone off to map out Raymond’s potential escape routes tentatively approaches them. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. Your Royal Highness. I don’t mean to—interrupt—“ He can’t seem to look Diarmuid in the eye. “I believe I’ve charted the outlaw de Merville’s most likely location. There’s a lord to the west, near the mountains, who fought alongside him during the war. I’m certain he’s there.”

“What makes you sure he wouldn’t try to flee across the border?” David asks. “Or to another ally?” His voice is gruff, as always, but the advisor seems to understand he’s not being dismissive of his work, but merely asking questions to get the most complete picture and figure out the best strategy.

The man replies, “He wouldn’t try and flee, Your Majesty, because then whatever tenuous claim to the throne he has now would be lost. And, there are a few others who are friendly with him, but they reside in more populated areas. I doubt de Merville would take the risk of riding through those cities alone. Not when he’s gone and murdered a king. He’d be torn apart by a mob. The lord’s land in the mountains—it’s a bit farther away and the road is more difficult to travel, but he’s a skilled rider. He’ll be there, I’m sure of it. That’s where you need to be.” The advisor clears his throat. “That is, if you think that’s the best course of action, Your Majesty.”

It’s a fine, detailed answer. David considers his next decision. “Send a battalion of soldiers to each of the lords that have made public their support for de Merville. Have them march through the cities and towns on their land, but they’re not to loot or pillage a single shop or home. Have them tell the elders that they are merely searching for the murderer and would-be thief de Merville and that their lord is suspected of hiding him. Then have them surround the lord’s manor and wait.” His throat has grown raw and rough from the discussion. David clears his throat and his husband is gone and back again with a fresh cup of black tea sweetened with honey. “Thank you, Diarmuid,” he says, even as he pulls a face at the taste of the drink.

The advisor patiently waits for him to finish his tea. David hands the cup back to Diarmuid and says, “I’ll go to the mountains with my huntswoman. If de Merville is there, then Avice and her hounds will track him down. If not, we’ll keep looking, manor by manor and lord by lord.”

“What will be done with those lords that supported de Merville, Your Majesty?”

There is really only one thing that can be done in this situation. Raymond’s gone and forced his hand; his reign will start in blood. David growls, “Their bodies will hang in the Capital square alongside their murderous friend.”

* * *

Guilt roils in David’s stomach as he watches Avice and Ivett say their goodbyes. He and Diarmuid have been married only a few months and David knows their separation will be terrible. Ivett and Avice have been together since he can remember and have never gone more than a week without seeing each other. This will be misery for both women.

“It must be done, Your Majesty,” Ivett says as she adjusts her wife’s hood. “I hate to have you leave, dearheart, but this’ll all be over more quickly with your assistance.”

Avice smiles. “Ah, you’ve quite a lot of faith in an old woman.”

“Experienced, you are.”

“In many ways.” Avice winks and Ivett playfully slaps her shoulder.

“Just be careful,” the stable master says.

Rua is indispensable in a discussion but his horsemanship leaves something to be desired and Diarmuid will need his help to keep the castle running. He’ll be staying put for the time being.

“So long as this isn’t a plot to keep Geraldus as your advisor, Your Majesty,” he teases. David snorts. This whole mess is partially due to his cousin’s former counsel. Raymond killed the king in his bedchambers and then fled the palace with Geraldus’s help—under threat and duress, was his argument, but the other advisors clapped him in chains. David is conflicted about this. No one ought to have died for the king—he was just a man, and not a particularly good one at that—but on the other hand, it was Geraldus who’d encouraged his cousin’s predilection for war, who eagerly sent men to slaughter to die for God and king. And he couldn’t do the same himself? Hypocrite. _Charlatan_. It’s his cowardice that’s forced David to leave Diarmuid for God knows how long.

His husband stands forlornly by David’s horse, stroking the stallion’s neck. A broad, dark, sturdy beast. “Not unlike someone else I know,” Diarmuid had remarked once with an impish smile. It sniffs curiously at the young man’s curls, eliciting a brief smile from him.

David is almost ready to depart.

There’s an anxiety growing inside him that is not unlike the nervousness he always felt before a battle. Once it’d begun there was nothing to think about but survival. But the waiting to charge, standing in position, listening for the whistle and the horns—that had caused the most unpleasant apprehension.

He’s eschewed a sword at his waist in place of an axe strapped to his back. That had caused not a little consternation among the advisors—most of whom have never fought in live combat, let alone killed a man—who argued alternatively that David would not be prepared to defend himself against Raymond or that it was unbecoming of a king to not wear a commander’s weapon.

How to explain to a group of men who spent their time discussing the state of the treasury, trade routes, and diplomatic alliances that he would never, ever carry a sword again? That simply grasping one by the hilt dredges up the worst of images to his mind’s eye and instantly transforms him, through decades of training and muscle-memory, into nothing but a weapon?

But Diarmuid had rushed to his aid with a few pretty lines that satisfied the group. “A sword is for an equal, my lords. A fellow soldier and warrior. Raymond de Merville bears the wolf’s head. He’s naught but a beast and will be dealt with as such,” he declared, squeezing David’s hand.

“Forgive us our impertinence,” one of the men quickly said, “Your Royal Highness is of course correct. Your Majesty’s skill and conduct in battle is renowned. The outlaw de Merville is no peer.”

But now his consort is silent as he brushes the horse’s mane. David gently tugs him away from the animal and tilts Diarmuid’s chin up so that they gaze into one another’s eyes. Their subsequent kiss is perhaps more suited for the bedchamber, but this is going to be his last chance for at least a couple of weeks to taste Diarmuid’s lips, to hold him close. “I won’t be gone long,” he assures his husband, “I’ll be back before you know it. You’ll enjoy the time away from me.”

Diarmuid mumbles, pouting, “I _won’t_. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“I just want you to come back to me. Even—if something happens, and you get hurt, just come home, and I’ll take care of you.”

David kisses his forehead. “If something _does_ happen, Diarmuid—go to your siblings. Cera, or Tadhg.” His sister-in-law is strong as anything. And his brother-in-law’s actions and accusations still sting, but if there is anyone who will protect Diarmuid against Raymond with vicious ferocity it’s Tadhg.

“But nothing will happen.” It’s more of question than a statement; Diarmuid wants reassurance, but he’s not sure he can give it this time.

“We must plan for every possibility, Diarmuid. That’s how you win a battle.”

His husband blinks back tears. “I love you,” he repeats in a quiet voice.

David hugs him so tight he can feel Diarmuid’s heart beating against his chest. “Do you think,” he asks, “That there’s anything in this world that will stop me from returning to you?”

Diarmuid narrows his eyes. “No. Anyone that tries will have to deal with _me_. I can be very scary.” Then he smiles and laughs, and David can’t help but laugh and kiss him again even as his chest tightens at the thought of being without this man for God knows how long.

* * *

Avice is aware of his concerns. “Nothing’ll happen to you, David,” she says, “Not when I’m around. There’s few creatures alive that can best me, and those that can won’t get the better of my hounds. You stay with me, David, just like when you were a boy. We’ll draw that man out and take him down. Then we’ll come home and kiss our pretty helpmates, and that’ll be that.”

“And that’ll be that,” David says.

They ride west, past the Capital, past the palace, past the crowds calling for justice for the dead king and clamoring to see the new one. Do they truly mourn his cousin as a king? Do they feel any real fond sentiment toward the man? Or is it just his murder that’s aroused their anger—a crime that needs to be addressed?

In each area they pass they see David’s coat of arms fly high on rooftops, pinned to the doors of houses and shops and churches, and draped from window to window like a line of laundry, painted or embroidered on silk or linen or even pillow cases. More heartening, in his opinion, are the wolf pelts nailed to the city gates and town walls. A firm statement that the inhabitants hunt the beasts and that there will be no rest or support for de Merville from them.

Past the cities the horses gallop, past the towns, into the outskirts of a village at the edge of a forest. When they stop to talk to the headman Avice’s hounds, still on Raymond’s scent, snarl and pant and whine, eager to resume the hunt.

David empathizes. He wants to get this over and done with.

“The outlaw Raymond de Merville’s been here,” one of David’s men says with a nod towards the hounds still baying for their quarry, “Your lord—he’s allied with him?”

The headman shrugs. “Oh, that man was, but he’s not our lord anymore.” He points to the manor in the distance. It’s _burning_. “You don’t shelter a beast. They live in the wilds. Murdering a king, and his own kin—who he grew up with, no less—there’s no love or loyalty there. And if a man wants a beast as an ally, then he’ll be treated as one.”

His blunt speech makes David think of Rua. “You remind me of a friend of mine.”

“Handsome man, eh?” The headman grins.

David chuckles. “And very wise. Your people know those forests better than us. Will you help us through it to find de Merville?”

The old man strokes his beard. “Ah, well, we were just going to let him starve to death—less risk to get the bounty, there. But if you’re with us, Your Majesty, then I’ll gather up a few of my people and we’ll put him down.”

* * *

David walks alongside Avice. Her hounds are on leashes in front of them, their noses to the ground as they follow Raymond’s trail. Flanking them in a long, straight line are David’s retinue of soldiers and advisors and the fit young men and women from the village. The forest is dark and thick, difficult to walk through but also difficult to hide in. There will be no running from the dogs or the slow, steady steps of the hunting party. They form a determined line to sweep the area, combing the underbrush for the flash of Raymond’s red cloak, the glint of his chain mail and armor, and his icy blue eyes.

It’s hauntingly familiar, this walk through the thickets. Once David and his cousins had scoured the forest near his parents’ castle for entertainment. It had been an adventure to scour the undergrowth in search of wild blackberries to eat and to catch a glimpse of any and all animals: deer and foxes fleeing from their noise, the birds twittering and jumping from branch to branch in the treetops, fish disturbed by pebbles thrown into the river. And, of course, they hoped to find the most elusive and dangerous creature of all—the great brown bear.

Now he hunts down his own cousin for the murder of the other, and David knows well that man is the most dangerous animal, the one capable of the most cruelty, the most viciousness and savagery. Men like Raymond.

But then there are those like Diarmuid who are kind and gentle and only ever want to help others and live peacefully.

So let his reign start in violence. He will water the land with Raymond’s blood and make it rich and fertile, and just as Diarmuid tends to his garden the young man will also care for the kingdom, helping it grow and flourish. And David will be at his side, ready to defend both his husband and his people.

“Your Majesty, might de Merville have taken off into the mountains?” one of the soldiers asks.

David shakes his head. He growls, “He wouldn’t have expected the villagers’ opposition to his arrival. He’s somewhere in this forest. Scrounging for food and water. Hiding in the brush. Unable to even make a fire lest we see him. He’s trapped. Soon enough we’ll walk right into him.”

He’s proven right when Avice’s hounds start snarling, spittle dripping from their jowls and fangs. The huntswoman calls them back and they circle around her and David with impatient whines. They’re large animals, all muscle and sinew and long, sharp teeth. One by one she unties their collars from their leashes, but none move from their spot until she commands, “Get to it.” Then they’re off in a flurry of paws and dirt, howling and barking.

The pack is trained for hunting deer and boar rather than men. No matter how rabid they sound they won’t touch at hair on Raymond's head. The hounds will only surround him, snapping only to keep him at the center of their circle.

That’s how they find Raymond: trapped by the dogs, angry and exhausted, his fine clothes torn, his armor scuffed with dirt and mud, his jaw lined with the early makings of a beard. He watches the band of hunters close in on him with gritted teeth. When he spots David stalking towards him he sneers.

“What took you so long? Had to put together a force strong enough for one man, eh?” He spits on the ground. “You used to be more than enough for an army just on your own. A true soldier. Gone to seed, have you? Gone soft? I know your stomach roils at the sight of blood now, _Your Majesty_.” It’s meant as an insult to David’s fighting prowess, mocking his masculinity and ego. An attempt to goad him into a one-on-one battle.

It might have worked years ago when David was young and cared about such things. But he's older now and weary of fighting, and Diarmuid’s waiting for him at home a long, long ways away from this place. He won’t risk seeing his husband’s smile again just to prove that he can still kill a man.

And besides, Raymond is no man in the eyes of society anymore—he’s an outcast, an outlaw, a danger to those around him. David stares at him. “The only quarry fit for a king is a hart of ten. There’s no antlers on your head. But I hear your barking. I see your fangs, and the blood on your hands. You’re that wolf that’s gone and killed a man.” He motions for the villagers to step forward. “And we’ve found you.”

The men and women notch their arrows, a single file line of archers all aimed at one target.

Raymond makes an odd noise that’s like a mix between a whimper and a growl of frustration. “You think you’re going to make a good king? You were slow of speech when we were children and now you can barely say a few sentences without spitting blood. Think people will cheer for the fucking _Mute?_ ”

“A ruler is for their people,” David states. “My duty is always to protect them, whether they like me or not.” The former king had done nothing but sate his own cravings, used his position and power for his own benefit. Raymond is cut from the same cloth, but he’s even meaner and crueler.

David recalls a conversation with Diarmuid—his husband’s words after David finally revealed to him that he would inherit the throne. He continues, “My husband says that I’m a good man so I’ll be a good king. He might have too much faith in me. But I’ll do my best to be better than the last one. And I already know that I’m a better man than _you_.”

The hunting party waits for his command. He catches Avice’s eye and she whistles, recalling the dogs to her side. David says, “Don’t hit his face. His body will hang in the Capital’s square along with anyone who helped him.”

Raymond’s expression is almost incredulous. He’s silent; he merely clenches his jaw and glowers. It’s as though he’s gone mute himself.

The archers fire.

* * *

The villagers slaughter a pig for Avice’s hounds to feast on and another for David’s retinue.

“You needn’t do that,” he exclaims, surprised, “I don’t want to take away from your winter stores.”

The headman gives him a toothy grin. “Well, we’ll be able to buy up plenty of supplies with the bounty from the wolf’s head, won’t we.

David replies, “Of course. I won’t forget your help.” Then he asks, “You wouldn’t happen to know where your former lord fled, do you?”

The old man nods towards the bloody sack that that holds Raymond’s body. “Hoping to add to the display?” He chuckles. “Apologies, Your Majesty. If we’d have known your plans we wouldn’t have burned him in the manor.”

Unsure of how to respond to that, David asks instead, “Should I appoint a new lord for you all?”

“Go right ahead, go right ahead. If we don’t like them we’ll take care of them ourselves, eh?”

Yes, David thought, Rua would get along well with these people.

In the evening Avice finds him sitting next to Raymond’s body, deep in thought.

She settles onto the ground next to him. “Mourning your cousins?” she asks. At David’s snort she says, “You all loved each other, once. It used to be the three of you running down those castle halls.”

“When we were very small,” David concedes. “When we were happy, and curious, and all we ever wanted to do was play.” But that was long ago, before the war and before his cousin even knew he was to be the king. He sighs. “Perhaps I’m mourning the children they once were.”

He can still recall how they looked. Big, bright blue eyes—the both of them—one dark-haired, one blond, dressed in their little tunics and breeches stained with juices from wild berries growing near the castle, tumbling on the grass with him, the air full of high, shrieking laughter. How was it they’d both gone cruel with age? Raymond intentionally and aggressively callous and brutal, and the king heartless in his joviality, caring only for his own amusements even at the expense of others.

And then came the war and all its nightmares. It’d stripped the flesh from David's body and the ease from his mind, leaving him scarred by sword and spear and killing, and it’d stripped any of the love he had left for his cousins away from him as well. They’d thrived in battle. _Delighted_ in it. And all David had wanted, in the end, was a quiet place to rest and not to hear screaming and see bloodshed every time he closed his eyes.

David murmurs, “We killed each other. Raymond murdered the king and then I had Raymond slaughtered.” He smiles without cheer or humor. “Did you ever imagine that this would happen when you watched the three of us explore the woods together? That we’d die at one another’s hands? That one day I’d be the last?”

He can’t quite pinpoint Avice’s expression. “Only God knows what’s in store for anyone, David. I cannot say that I ever expected that _this_ would be one of our hunts, but—“ She pauses and frowns, deep in thought. “You’ve always been a good lad. You’ve only ever tried to do what’s right. They thought you a warrior for your strength and size, and I daresay you were more than decent at it, but—you know the reason you get along with that pretty husband of yours? You’re both gentle creatures. Made for nurturing and caring and defending others. So, no, I can’t rightly say that this is where I thought I’d be sitting one day, but it is so, and I’ll gladly follow you wherever you continue to lead me, Your Majesty.”

“Have you been talking to Diarmuid?” David tries to joke. His voice is strained. He hiccups and wipes at his eyes. “He’s always telling me ridiculous things like that.” She puts a weathered, wrinkled hand on his shoulder as he hangs his head and cries.

There’s a whirlwind of emotions crashing through his heart. Avice’s words were too kind, her trust in him too much and unwarranted. He is the king, and he never wanted to be. His family his dead, and he’s sorry that he’s not more sorry. Throughout the kingdom Raymond’s allies—all who gladly fought alongside him in the war, who took part in his depravities—are being dragged from manors and castles and killed, and the satisfaction he feels sickens him. And he misses his husband terribly. All he wants is to go home, to see Diarmuid’s garden, to tell him what he has seen, to sleep with him in their bed, to taste his lips, to hear him sigh and laugh, to hold him and never, ever let go.

It’s thoughts of Diarmuid that make David stop crying. The ache in his heart does not ease but it clears his mind, anchors him. There is still so much to do and he cannot do it without his partner. 

Above all else he is Diarmuid’s husband and Diarmuid’s lover and Diarmuid’s friend and everyone else can bow before him and call him king but he is not complete without his husband’s hand in his.

“Avice,” he rasps, “Go back home. Kiss your wife. Then have them send Diarmuid to the Capital. I need to prepare for the coronation, and I won’t be crowned king without my husband at my side.”


	10. The Reunion and the Coronation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diarmuid finally reunites with David. After the coronation is over, the two have a very important talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't mean to leave this fic un-updated for so long, but this chapter got away from me, as you can tell by the length. I hope it was worth the wait. After this is a (hopefully short) epilogue. 
> 
> Also, two very spicy scenes in this chapter as David and Diarmuid work out some pent up energy.

There’s very little time to mope. It’s Diarmuid who’s in charge of the castle in David’s stead and he will _not_ disappoint his husband. Now in addition to his own duties—directing the servants and staff, meeting with the cook to discuss meals and their inventory—he has taken on his husband’s. With Rua’s assistance he receives the previous night’s report from the captain of the guard and he walks the castle’s perimeter in order to inspect its walls for weak points.

Diarmuid sits in David’s seat in the afternoon to receive petitioners. It’s a large, wooden chair, more functional than comfortable, worn but still intricately carved, the arm rests ending in roaring lion’s heads. He’s small in it; Rua surreptitiously had a velvet cushion placed upon it before his first official day receiving the people and even then the seat threatens to swallow him.

But he rather likes it—it’s a bit like being surrounded by David.

Afterwards there’s more to discuss with Rua. The castle is like the monastery in this way: no matter how much he gets done in a day, there’s still even more to do tomorrow. That isn’t a bad thing, either, because at least when Diarmuid is busy he doesn’t have the time to fret over David.

The bedchamber is unbearable without him. His husband left with his horse and his axe and took all the warmth and liveliness from the room as well. Diarmuid misses the scratch of David’s quill as he writes at his desk, the _clink_ of his spoon in his cup of tea as he stirs in a bit of honey, all their conversations—over breakfast, in the bathtub, as they dressed, as they undressed, in bed with David’s strong arms wrapped around him.

To wake up to an empty bed and go to sleep to an empty bed—It’s very lonely, without David.

All of the castle’s inhabitants seem to be aware of his moroseness and kindly try and cheer him up. The kitchen staff especially strives to make his meals without his husband enjoyable. Diarmuid’s food, usually quite simple but always delicious and comforting, is plated in increasingly wild and elegant ways in an attempt to lift his spirits. The rich, yellow pats of butter have shown up on dishes in a variety of shapes. Molded into the familiar little round hen, a variety of flowers, a reclining lamb, or stamped with patterns of wheat, a bee, or a bird on a branch. He’s been presented with small loaves of bread shaped like frogs with currants for eyes, each sitting on a leaf of cabbage in their own pond of soup. And for dessert thin, crispy, sweet wafers that look like swatches of lace.

It does make him smile—all the household’s efforts to brighten his days. The cooks with their presentations, the maids who pause as they scatter fresh, sweet-scented rushes onto the floor to tell him that they pray for both David and him each night, the guards on the ramparts who indulge his questions as he watches the road for any sign riders.

It’s so gracious and kind of everyone to make him feel comfortable and at ease, but the castle really isn’t any kind of home without David beside him.

The sun hasn’t yet risen when Diarmuid wakes, but there’s warm glow outside the window. He walks over, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. The light’s coming from the stables. Lanterns lit and torches held aloft. Riders, Diarmuid realizes, a group of riders.

He can only make out the shapes of men and women and horses. There’s the distant clamor of voices. David isn’t among them. On foot or riding, he towers above people, and besides, Diarmuid is certain his husband would have rushed to reunite with him. But they’ve had to bring some news. Why else would they be here? Some word on whether or not de Merville’s been caught, or maybe just a message from David telling Diarmuid that he’s well.

He quickly pulls a robe of modest length over his nightshirt—David’s velvet tunic is quite large, but not long enough to cover his knees—and steps into a pair of slippers. As he’s carefully tying the robe shut there’s a knock on the bedchamber door.

“Diarmuid? Are you awake?” Rua’s voice, still heavy from sleep.

In reply he opens the door. There the loyal advisor stands, flanked by the night guards and Ivett and—

“Oh, Avice!” Diarmuid cries, delighted. “You’ve come back! How was your journey? Have you eaten? Are you very tired? I saw the riders out near the stables—how long have you been traveling?”

The huntswoman holds up a hand, smiling. “Peace, Your Royal Highness. I am hearty and healthy as always. Come as fast as I could on your husband’s orders. The outlaw de Merville is dead, and now the king will have his coronation. He’s asked for you. His Majesty won’t have the ceremony without you there with him.”

de Merville—dead? Diarmuid had known that it would end in such a way. The man had murdered the king, after all. And he had said nasty, shameful things to him in the short time that he’d known him—always leering at him like he was imagining what Diarmuid looked like underneath his clothes. And then—and then, every time David had interacted with his cousin he’d become furious and despondent, lost in memories of both childhood and war. Diarmuid cannot say that he is glad that de Merville is dead, but—

“God’s will be done,” he softly replies. “Was David—is he—after all that, is he _well_?”

Avice seems to understand his meaning. “His Majesty was unharmed. Your husband is in one piece, don’t worry about that. I won’t lie to you, though, Your Highness, he was quite upset by the outcome. But he would very much like to see you.”

Poor David! He must be so troubled and lonely! There’ll be no one at the court left who he can truly talk to, not with Avice and Ivett and Rua and Diarmuid all here without him. Diarmuid clasps his hands together. “I’ll get ready right away!” He must see his husband. He dashes to his chest of drawers to find his most travel-ready clothes. “Three days, isn’t that right, Rua? We can get to the Capital in three days?”

Rua pads into the room. His voice is firm. “True enough. For a very fast horse and a very _skilled_ rider. It’ll take a few more days for all of us to get to the Capital, Diarmuid.”

“Oh…” Diarmuid frowns. He’s a little better at horsemanship, to be sure—his lessons with Ivett have done him good, but his riding still has much to be desired. He sighs. “I see. But could we—is there no way we could ride a little faster? I want to see David so badly.”

“Yes, and I’m certain he’s eager to set eyes on you once more,” Rua says, “So let’s not have you thrown from another horse.”

His face warms from the blush that spreads across his face. “It won’t happen again! I’m a much better rider now and besides, Seilide would never do that. She’s too sweet.”

Rua drawls, “She’s also quite long in the tooth, Your Highness, so let’s all have a nice, safe travel to the Capital. Your husband will also be happy to see you in one piece.”

Which is a winning argument, in Diarmuid’s opinion. Rua is a very wise advisor.

He’s ready to leave come morning. Diarmuid could hardly go back to sleep he was so anxious for the sun to rise. But he must be well rested, and calm, and collected. His status as the king’s consort and husband means that Diarmuid’s behavior reflects on David and he refuses to cause him any shame.

That doesn’t stop him from being fit to burst from excitement, though. Not only will he soon be reunited with his husband after a long, lonely month, but he’ll also get to travel to the Capital and see all the people. It was frightening—their wedding—Diarmuid had never seen such a crowd before. But now he’s grown more used to seeing new faces every day, especially after the charity banquet where he’d worked with and met so many strangers and they’d all been so kind.

Yes, while traveling to meet David he’ll think of it as a kind of adventure, and he’ll tell his husband all about it when he sees him.

Ivett and Avice will be in charge of the castle while Diarmuid and Rua are gone. There can be no two better people, in Diarmuid’s opinion. These are women who have had a hand in raising David and his husband is the finest of men. But there is one matter that has him concerned and warrants one extra reminder.

After the two women each take his hands in theirs and bid him a safe journey Diarmuid says, “Please, take care of the garden? I don’t know how long we’ll be gone.” The garlic and onions have been growing so well—if he and David have to live at the palace for an extended period of time, he might miss the harvest.

Well, perhaps he could have a garden at the palace in the meantime. It wouldn’t be the same, but…

Avice says, gently, “Don’t worry about the crops, Diarmuid. I’d have made a fine gardener if I weren’t so handy on the hunt. Is that not so, my love?”

“True enough—when I’m at your side,” Ivett replies.

She’s teasing, but her wife smiles and nods sagely. “Ah, indeed. I’m always better with your help.”

Their flirtations usually fill Diarmuid with tenderness and it’s no different today, but now there’s an added sense of heartache. He yearns for David, to make him smile and laugh, to hold him and kiss him.

Rua’s sharp voice startles him out of his pining. “Your Royal Highness, we can’t start without you! Come now, that horse of yours is slow enough!”

“Seilide is _patient_ and _careful_ ,” Diarmuid huffs. He turns back to the two women. “I don’t know when we’ll be back, but—thank you, truly, for all you’ve done for me.”

“Safe travels, Your Royal Highness,” Ivett says. Then she grins and pats Diarmuid’s cheek with a warm, weathered hand. “We’ll all be waiting here for you and your man, whenever you two deign to grace us with your presence once more.”

It’s a comforting thought, but the question is—when will they return?

* * *

Something remarkable happens as they travel along the well-worn roads. On either side of the gravel path throngs of people appears to watch their procession—four guards at the front, followed closely by Diarmuid and Rua, the rest of the advisors and some of the riders who arrived with Avice from the Capital, behind them a handful of servants, and another set of guards at the back.

Entire families—no, entire towns—stare wide-eyed as the group passes. They’re all dressed in their best clothes and crane their heads at the horses and their riders. They look like a field of flowers, men and women and children dressed in orange and light blue and yellow and red. They look excited. Certainly a procession such as this one is an unusual sight, but Diarmuid isn’t sure they warrant all the finery and thrilled expression. The king isn’t even with them.

Diarmuid worries his bottom lip. “Do they know that David’s still in the Capital? I hope they won’t be disappointed.”

Rua leans over and says, gently, “No, Diarmuid. They’re here to see the prince consort.”

His face heats up. “What? Why would they want to see me?”

The advisor scoffs. “The lovely, pious young man who’s captured and softened the heart of King David the Mute and who held a banquet for the poor and needy during his honeymoon? I can’t imagine why the people would ever want to see _you_.”

“Oh, well.” Diarmuid frowns a little. “That’s just what you do. You give what you can to help others, and now I have more to give.”

“It’s quite the change. The last king only ran around with drunken louts and sycophants.”

“Not David,” Diarmuid protests, coming to his husband’s defense.

Rua concedes, “David was there, occasionally, but he is not a drunken lout or a sycophant, my apologies. But my point is, your husband’s a war hero well-loved by the soldiers—regardless of what he thinks of his service—and he’s known for being strict and humorless but fair.” Before Diarmuid can also protest that David is _not_ humorless the advisors quickly adds, “That’s how he’s seen, Diarmuid. And you’re the gentle, beautiful, charitable, devout prince consort. It’s a good match. The people are more cheerful now than they have been in a long time. A silver lining to the regicide, at least.”

Diarmuid gasps. “Rua!” But the man is unperturbed by his shock and merely shrugs and smirks.

They make camp only at night. The captain of the guard had lightly suggested that perhaps it would be better for Diarmuid’s constitution to camp twice a day. Diarmuid merely reminded him that his trip from the monastery with his brothers had been considerably more dangerous. There were no roads in some places, for one, and the rapid pace at which they’d traveled had left Diarmuid jostled around in the wooden cart. He’d let the captain know that camping in the evening for a proper meal and sleep was fine so long as they made certain to let man and beast rest throughout the day.

The food is traveler’s fare. Brown bread and hard cheese and slices of sweet red apples, handfuls of hazelnuts and almonds, strips of spiced, dried meat, and hot pottage of lentils and vegetables thickened with bread crusts. There’s plenty to eat, but most of the party do not find the meals particularly encticing. Diarmuid, on the other hand, is cheered by it because it rather reminds him meals at the monastery. Plain to some, but still filling and tasty.

Sometimes the people from the villages and towns meet them on the road and offer fresh water, baskets of strawberries, salted fish, and other gifts of food that has Diarmuid smiling and thanking them profusely from the bottom of his heart. One woman brings a tray of cheese tarts. Diarmuid tells her truthfully that they taste as delicious as the ones he ate at his wedding and she beams and excitedly kisses his hand. A family of three—husband, wife, and baby just on the cusp of walking—shyly offer their respects when they make camp. Diarmuid offers to share a bowl of pottage and apples, if they’d like, and they stay, bewildered but pleased, as he bounces the baby in his lap.

It is still a long way to David, but it’s extremely encouraging to not only meet such kind people on the journey, but to also see his husband’s coat of arms displayed everywhere. Flags at the top of forts and guard towers, banners hanging from shop and house windows. During their wedding procession, when the king had led them to David’s own home, the people had still lined the streets, still bowed, but their faces had been impassive, neutral. David isn’t here, now, but the crowds bow and cheer and clap at the sight of Diarmuid and his retinue, and when he smiles back and waves they only grow louder.

His cheeks hurt from grinning so broadly but he can’t stop—it delights him to no end that the people seem to already love David. He’s always been spoken of with respect, sometimes with fear, but Diarmuid knows better than any that he is a man who deserves love. That his own people proudly hang their king’s colors from their homes, cheer and wave to the king’s husband and his advisor—yes, perhaps David will soon realize that he is worth admiration and affection, not just from Diarmuid but from _everyone_.

Diarmuid’s excitement shifts to nervousness as they near the Capital. de Merville and his ilk have been killed and hanged in the square. Proof that David has brought a murderer to justice and has hunted down an attempted usurper and his allies as well—a warning to those who would oppose his rule. This is ancient law, Diarmuid knows, and yet—the thought of those bodies, dark and bloated, hanging high above the square, picked over by birds—

It makes him nauseous.

“Rua?” The advisor turns to him with a raised brow. “Will—will de Merville and the others—will they still be in the square?”

The other man’s hard face softens at his question. “No, Diarmuid. The square will be clear and cleaned by the time we get there, I assure you.”  
Diarmuid cannot help but sigh in relief. “Thank you, Rua.”

And it’s just as Rua said. The Capital’s square is teeming with people, but the stones are scrupulously clean. They practically shine in the sunlight. Fresh rushes and flower petals have been strewn about to hide any lingering scent of decay. Everyone seems unbothered to be standing in a place where bodies once hanged, but perhaps that is the way of it, here. Crime, punishment, justice. The most worrisome thing that ever happened at the monastery were monks occasionally slacking off in their chores and the constant disappearance of candied chestnuts from the kitchen pantry (which Diarmuid never knew anything about, of course).

But this is _all_ very different from the monastery. Now he stands in the kingdom’s capital city. It’s absolutely enormous, filled with wood- and stone-carved buildings, some three stories high, and teeming with so many people Diarmuid thinks of an ant colony, bustling and busy in a maze of streets. And they’re here to see his husband—to see the new king, crowned, and to see _Diarmuid_ at his side. It’s a new era for the kingdom, yes, but it’s a chance for a do-over for their wedding ceremony. Diarmuid and David will together once more, and everyone will see how great a man his husband is, how Diarmuid loves him so much he could burst with joy.

It’s overwhelming. It’s amazing.

Once, only a short time before, Diarmuid had been a novice.

Rua gently shakes his shoulder. “What’s wrong, Diarmuid? Are you ill?”

He hadn’t realized he was crying. Diarmuid wipes his eyes. “I’m fine. I’m just—tired from the journey. I want to see my husband as soon as possible, please.”

The advisor nods. “Don’t worry. It won’t be long now.”

David’s castle is old; he’d told him once that it’d been in his father’s family for generations. It’s a remarkable structure. It’s home.

But next to the palace—Diarmuid thinks three of their castles could fit inside it. This is where the previous kings and queens lived. His husband’s forebearers.

The palace is surrounded by tall, stone walls on an island the middle of a lake. There’s a strip of land bridging the palace to the mainland, the entryway gated and guarded. It’s a brilliant color—all of it built from red sandstone, from the battlements to the keep to the chapel, and even though it’s such an enormous building it’s still bustling with people. Diarmuid can see the guards patrolling the walls, can hear the conversations of the stable hands, can smell the smoke from the kitchen’s fires. But even with it’s lovely exterior and all its activity, the palace still seems—

It still seems lonely.

This is where all the former rulers—David’s ancestors—lived, and this is where they died, in the middle of the hub of their nation, cut off from their people by a lake and a heavily guarded draw bridge. This is where the one of David’s cousins murdered the other. Inside the walls is the place where the former king died.

This is where Diarmuid and David will live, now.

He hopes there is a garden.

They’ve barely stepped foot inside the castle before Diarmuid is ushered off to the baths by a team of officious looking men and women intent on making him presentable at court. Up the stairs, through the halls, and to a room that’s nearly as large as his and David’s entire bedchamber. The marble tub is so large it could fit a handful of people.

In fact, that seems to be the intention. While a hot, perfumed bath does sound extremely appealing, Diarmuid balks when one of the attendants idly mentions that they will _bathe_ him. “No, that will not be necessary, I assure you,” he cries.

The group pause in collecting various bath oils and soft towels to stare at him. “You’ll—bathe yourself, Your Royal Highness?” one of the women asks. She sounds as if Diarmuid’s just suggested that has no need for a horse because he knows how to fly.

“I did learn a few things at the monastery,” Diarmuid tries to joke, but the attendants merely exchange glances and nod, as if this comment explains his very strange insistence on not being seen naked in front of a group of strangers. They are satisfied, however, when he requests that they bring him a set of clean clothes.

One of the men says, “Oh, worry not, Your Royal Highness. We’ll bring you an entire wardrobe to choose from.”

That seems like a bit much, Diarmuid thinks, floating in the middle of the bath. He’s spread-eagled. His limbs don’t even come close to the rim of the tub. The scented oil is nice as well—fresh and floral, and it colors the water a lovely lavender. It just seems a bit much. The room is too large—the tub, the shelves filled with perfume and oil and colorful soaps, the white fur rug at the foot of the bath. He misses the coziness of his and David’s bath, where the two of them could soak in the steaming water and cuddle against the warm candlelight, kissing and touching one another.

He steps onto the fur rug and dries himself off with one towel and covers himself with another, waiting for the attendants to return with his clothing.

They seem equally perplexed that he wants them to set the outfits aside and leave so he can dress himself. But the prince consort’s orders are not to be questioned. They exit with deep, low bows.

To Diarmuid’s dismay none of the gowns are ones that he would pick out himself. They’re gaudy, bright, patterned things. He prefers his dresses to be one single color in a simple shape, perhaps embroidered along the neckline or the hem. These are all trim and lace and frills and are as colorful and bright as his opal jewels. He’d look ridiculous in them—no way to greet his husband after more than a month apart.

But then he spies a decent one and sighs in relief. It’s a deep, dark red. Diarmuid feels his complexion is better suited to blues and greens, but he likes the solid color. The gown is still rather suggestive, in his opinion—the neckline is lower than he’d like, and while the sleeves are loose and the length would cover his feet the chest and waist seem quite form fitting. Compared to the others, though… He shudders as he ties his black stockings with ribbons of matching, dark red silk. Then into the gown he goes. The material is lighter than he expected, but it’s pleasant against his skin.

He steps into his new black slippers and rushes out the door to the waiting attendants. They’re arguing with Rua, who spots him and immediately sags with relief. “There you are, Diarmuid.”

“ _His Royal Highness_ ,” one of the attendants scolds.

Rua ignores him. “Travel an entire week together and it’s when we get to the palace that I lose track of you. Come on, let’s go see your husband.”

A scandalized murmur rises among the group of men and women. “His Majesty is holding _court_. We have to wait to announce His Royal Highness’s presence.”

“I’m sure His Majesty’s been in a thunderous mood ever since he arrived, am I right?” Rua asks. At their tentative nods, he says, “Easy fix. A man needs his husband. Let’s go, _Your Royal Highness_.”

The attendants make a series of squawks like a gander of geese. They flutter around Diarmuid, rapidly informing him of court protocol.

“You must wait to be addressed, Your Royal Highness.”

“Yes, and then you bow, and you walk three steps, and you bow again, and walk another three steps—“

“All the way to the king. Stay bowed when you reach his feet.”

“You must not stand until he allows it.”

Right—Diarmuid’s at court now. He must moderate his behavior. He needs to be a fitting partner and consort for David, but not forget that he is still one of his subjects. Diarmuid’s time and desires are not more important than everyone else’s. But it will be difficult, to see his husband and not be able to simply rush to embrace him.

Things are so different here.

He’s a bundle of nerves by the time Rua leads him through the maze of corridors to the court entrance. The door is massive and ornate and shining. Surely it has to be gilded? What would be the point in making a door solid gold? Two guards stand on either side of it. At first they hold up a hand as Rua stomps toward them, but then they startle when they notice Diarmuid, face flushed from their near run.

“Open those doors, if you would,” says Rua, “So that we may inform the king that the prince consort has finally arrived.”

The guards take in Rua’s stern, glowering face and Diarmuid’s anxious, hopeful one. Then they nod and open the door.

It’s nothing like the great hall at home, which serves as both a communal dining area and a place to hold discussions and air one’s grievances. In the castle visitors could sit at the tables while they waited to see David, comfortable from the warmth of the kitchen fires and the delicious, wafting scent of spices and baking bread and roasted vegetables as the cooks prepared the evening meals just another room over.

Here the audience stands in their finery, draped in jewels and dressed in velvets and furs, looking either impatient or bored or nervous as they mutter to one another. Diarmuid recognizes a few of the advisors who informed David of his kingship near the front of the room, arguing amongst themselves. And the throne—it’s a large thing, made of marble, carved with a pattern of oak leaves. Diarmuid thinks it looks quite pretty but also cold and rather lonely, just like the rest of the palace, especially because it’s currently empty.

Instead of sitting in the throne the king stands beside it, standing as straight and tall, hands behind his back, like a military commander. His husband is resplendent and handsome in a rich black tunic embroidered with gold thread in intricate floral patterns. His dark pants are new—Diarmuid can tell, because al the ones at home are scuffed from use—but his boots are the same worn, weathered pair that he wears when he helps Diarmuid in the garden.

He has not noticed Diarmuid’s entrance yet, so focused he is on the arguing group of advisors in front of him.

A soft, shuddering gasp escapes Diarmuid’s lips. He trembles. He cannot help it. He is supposed to wait for someone to announce him, wait for the king to address him, and then he is supposed to bow and walk and bow and walk until he reaches the king’s feet, and only stand when he is told to stand. He is supposed to be a vision of dignity and regality and order.

But Diarmuid’s heart soars at the sight of his husband, and he finds himself walking toward him completely unbidden. The audience on either side of the room turns to watch him, confusion and surprise written on their faces as he makes his way to the throne. There might be murmurs—he does not know. He can focus on nothing but the expression on David’s face, uncomfortable around this crowd, irritated at the argument, somewhat sad and tired.

Courtly conduct is not nearly as important as seeing to his husband. Diarmuid stops, just before the still-arguing advisors, and eagerly calls out, “David!”

David immediately turns. When he sees Diarmuid standing there his eyes widen. He goes slack-jawed. It’s an expression of extreme, utter surprise. Even though he’s still trembling Diarmuid cannot help but laugh at his poor husband’s look of shock.

His laughter echoes through the now hushed court. The sound jars David out of his reverie. His voice is that same low rasp, as welcome and pleasant to Diarmuid’s ears as the way his callused hands feel against his skin.

He says, voice full of wonder and joy, “ _Diarmuid_.”

Diarmuid takes a few steps forward before David crosses the distance between them in a two quick strides and pulls him into a strong, warm embrace. Diarmuid practically melts against his husband with a sigh. This is what he missed—David’s arms around him, the feeling of his heartbeat, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes—just _David_ , there, with him.

“You’re here,” David murmurs.

Diarmuid smiles. “Of course I am,” he says, “I came as soon as I could. I missed you _so much_. I love you.”

David’s face breaks into a broad grin. His husband is always so handsome, but his wide smile especially makes Diarmuid’s heart flutter. He gives Diarmuid a peck on the nose. “I love _you_.” Then, to those in the court he says, “My husband’s arrived. We must discuss the coronation. You all may enjoy the rest of your day.”

And with that, he ushers Diarmuid out of the room.

* * *

Their journey to the bedchamber is interrupted as David seemingly loses his patience. He pulls Diarmuid into a quiet corridor and runs his hands along his waist, peppers his face with kisses. “I love you,” he rasps, “I love you so much. You’ll never leave my side again.”

“Never, David,” Diarmuid breathlessly replies. “I was so worried. I prayed for you every day. I’m so glad you’re—but, Avice told me you were troubled.”

David kisses his neck just how Diarmuid likes, brushing his lip against his throat, running his tongue along the skin, and gently, gently, nipping at his pulse with his teeth. “I missed my husband. I need you near me to be happy—can’t bare to wake up without you next to me—“ His words are so sweet but his tongue runs hot and wet on Diarmuid’s skin.

It’s odd, how David affects him. When he speaks Diarmuid’s heart flutters, and when he touches him Diarmuid grows hot between his legs even as he shivers in David’s arms.

He shifts the material of his gown, blushing, in order to hide his arousal. “I want you,” he whispers, “I missed you so much, David. I was so _lonely_ without you. I thought of you at night—touched myself. But it wasn’t the same at all.”

His husband is staring between his legs. He swallows. “You want me? You’ll have me. We’ll not leave the bed until you’re satisfied.”

The palace takes on a new perspective as Diarmuid is lifted from the floor and carried to the bedchamber in David’s arms.

Diarmuid doesn’t bother glancing around the room. Everything in the palace is new and overwhelming, and this isn’t their castle and this isn’t _their_ bed, but he’s with David, finally, finally, _finally_ , and home is in his lips, his hands, his eyes, his voice.

When David throws him on the bed Diarmuid’s dark red gown billows up around him. He pushes himself up on his elbows, pitches his voice low and sensual. “My king. What would you have me do?” He flutters his eyeslashes as he looks up at David—that always seems to send his husband into a frenzy of lovemaking.

He’s not wrong. David’s pupils are blown black as he stares down at Diarmuid. “Your king wants to suck his husband’s cum straight from his pretty cock.”

Diarmuid feels his entire body grow hot as he flushes pink all over. His confident, sensual act quickly disappears. “O-oh! David!” There’s no low purr to it now, just a scandalized cry. David huffs a laugh as he undresses, tossing his boots and his pants and his tunic to the side.

It isn’t the first time that Diarmuid’s seen his husband naked and hard for him, but it’s been _more than a_ _month_ without him and Diarmuid is as giddy and eager as he was when they first started using their bed for more than sleeping. His husband’s broad, muscled chest and shoulders, crisscrossed with scars that are still so sensitive to the touch and make David shiver under Diarmuid’s lips. His strong arms that can lift Diarmuid up in the air like he weighs absolutely nothing. His dark, kind, warm eyes, his beard that rubs pleasantly rough against Diarmuid’s face and chest and thighs as he kisses him.

When he spots Diarmuid reaching to take off his slippers he stops him. “I’d like you to keep them on. And the gown.” David bunches the material in his hands and pushes it up to Diarmuid’s chest. There’s another groan rumbling from his throat when he sees Diarmuid’s stockings, tied to his thighs by ribbons of silk. “Those too.”

Then David kisses his cock from the base to the head—sloppy and wet, imbued with a month’s worth of desperation and longing. “Missed this—missed your taste.” He laves at Diarmuid’s cock with his broad, rough tongue, lapping at the dripping precum, before swallowing him down, his throat tight and hot.

Diarmuid’s toes curl into the blankets while his hands fly to David’s hair. “ _David_ —“

His husband pulls his lips off of him and rasps, “Missed your voice saying my name like _that_.” He strokes Diarmuid’s shaft in his fist. “I love your voice. I love you.”

Even beating as fast as it is, Diarmuid’s heart still finds time to flutter at David’s words. “I love you too, Dav— _ah! Ah! David!_ ” Oh, God, the entire court will hear him—but he can’t help it, not when David licks and sucks him like all he wants to do is make Diarmuid scream and tremble. “I’m not going to last—“

His warning doesn’t phase David one bit. His husband merely hums, sending pleasurable vibrations through Diarmuid’s cock, and continues to lave and lick and suck in earnest. He presses Diarmuid’s hips into the bed and it’s that—the sensation of his fingers digging into his skin—that has Diarmuid throwing his head back with a cry and coming down his husband’s throat. It’s so intense—he hasn’t come like this in all the time they’ve been apart—and for a moment as he shudders and gasps, writhing on the bed, he worries that it might be too much for David to swallow. But the older man simply continues to suck at his cock, wringing the cum out of him with his lips and tongue.

When he begins to feel oversensitive he whimpers and reaches for David’s hand. His husband immediately pulls his mouth away, lips shining with spit. “Are you okay? Was that good for you?”

Diarmuid gives him a dazed nod. “Oh, David,” he murmurs. “Please, I want…”

“What do you want, Diarmuid? Tell me what you want.” David brings Diarmuid’s fingers into his mouth and laves them with his tongue, suckling them in lieu of his cock.

Diarmuid shivers. “I—I want. I want you to—when you stroke yourself and spill on me. I like that. I missed that. I missed how hot and sticky it is on my skin. I—David?”

His husband is staring at him, flushed red from head to toe with arousal, chest heaving, cock thick and erect and leaking. “That’s how you want me?”

“Yes, please, David.”

David crawls on top of him, legs brushing against the bunched up silk of Diarmuid’s dress. His lips find Diarmuid’s, soft and gentle. “Let me take this off of you?” he asks, voice low and raspy.

Diarmuid nods again. “Oh, yes, please—I want— _ah!_ ” He cries out in shock as David grabs the neckline of his dress and _yanks_ it down his body. The sound of the material tearing, the seams ripping apart, fills the room. He shivers at the sudden chill, the cool air on his bare chest, trembles in delight at the strength of David’s desire for him.

He’s stripped _nearly_ naked—David pulls the ruined dress off of him and then slides his palms along the inside of Diarmuid’s stocking-clad thighs. His husband’s eyes rove over his body. He presses his knees into the mattress on either side of Diarmuid’s waist. His hand grasps his cock and he thrusts, groaning with each pump of his fist.

Diarmuid’s spent cock twitches. It’s so—he loves this, the almost primal look on David’s face, the noises he makes—and it’s always so _intimate_. His husband watches him with eyes half-closed from pleasure, mouth open and gasping as he strokes himself. Diarmuid only looks away to stare between David’s legs, to watch how his hips move when he fucks his fist, to look at how wet his fingers are gripped firmly around his leaking cock.

Then Diarmuid recognizes it—when David’s thrusts become shorter and quicker, when he starts panting like a dog—he’s close. Diarmuid sits up on his elbows, eager and flushed and waiting.

David groans. His eyes close, his body shakes—he’s lost in ecstasy. Ropes of thick, hot cum burst from the tip of his cock and hit Diarmuid’s chest and stomach. This is what he does to David, he thinks, pleased. His husband wants him that badly—gets such pleasure from Diarmuid that when he finishes his seed _covers_ Diarmuid’s body.

When David’s orgasm tapers off and his breathing returns to normal he asks, “Did you like that, Diarmuid?”

“I _loved_ it. I love feeling your pleasure on me.” He squirms on the bed, suddenly feeling shy. “Will you kiss me, David?”

“You think there’s a chance I wouldn’t?” His husband pulls Diarmuid into his lap and presses a border of kisses along Diarmuid’s jaw. “We’ve been apart for longer than I thought. You’ve forgotten that I always want to kiss you.”

“David, I could never forget that,” Diarmuid murmurs.

“Good. But I’ll have to keep reminding you. Just in case.” His hand falls to Diarmuid’s chest, his fingers running through streaks of his drying spend, and pinches a nipple between thumb and forefinger.

Diarmuid yelps. “David!” Brushing the offending hand away, he says, “I love you _very much_. But surely we have to prepare for the coronation?”

His husband grumbles, “I am the king. It’s my coronation. We can postpone it if I want to enjoy my prince consort.”

It’s so shocking to hear the petulance in that deep, rough voice that Diarmuid bursts out laughing. “No, you’ll do no such thing! We’ll have your coronation and _then_ you can enjoy me as much as you’d like.”

“Yes, my lord,” David teases.

They sit there for a time, comfortable in their embrace. Then Diarmuid shifts in David’s arms and notices the sorry state of his gown, ripped down the middle and sodden with sweat and cum. There’ll be no mending it—it’ll be nothing more than a very large, expensive rag.

He says, with a little bit of wonder and a great deal of arousal, “You tore it right off me, David.”

His husband looks embarrassed. “Forgive me, Diarmuid. I was too eager. I shouldn’t have been so rough with you.”

“I didn’t mind _that_ ,” Diarmuid quickly replies, “I really liked it. But my gown—“

David kisses him. “I’ll have another one made for you to replace it. Something better.”

“That’s fine, but I haven’t anything to wear _now_.”

“I’ll have someone bring you another outfit,” David says. Something mischievous flickers in his expression. “We’ll have to wait a bit for them to get it ready, though, won’t we?”

Diarmuid can’t help but giggle.

* * *

By evening both he and his husband are thoroughly sated and Diarmuid is modestly dressed in a tunic and breeches. The officials and advisors are aflutter with activity and nerves. They carefully explain the morning’s schedule to Diarmuid as he sips at a bit of warm, mulled wine, watered down at David’s order with fresh water and honey.

It won’t be as ostentatious or complicated an event as he thought it would be, especially since David’s insisted that the ceremony be over and done with as soon as possible. For one, David hates being the center of attention. And more importantly, there is little to celebrate in his opinion. Not with him coming to power at the expense of his cousin’s murder.

Diarmuid will accompany David the entire way. His husband’s insisted that they will walk together side-by-side from the palace and to the Capital’s church. Diarmuid simply needs to hold his husband’s arm on their way to the church. It’s when they get to the altar that Diarmuid worries.

“His Majesty will bow before the priest and humble himself before God. Your Royal Highness will wait by His Majesty’s side and receive his tunic. Then the priest will anoint His Majesty with oil, bless him and his reign—may it be long and bountiful—and then you will redress His Majesty, the priest will place the crown upon his head, he will rise. Have you any questions, Your Royal Highness?”

Diarmuid sets his cup down and carefully asks, “When David names me his prince consort—will I be—um—humbled before God as well?” He doesn’t mind _God_ seeing him stripped to the waist and bare-chested, but a room full of other people, on the other hand…

The advisors suddenly grow flustered; they cough and turn red and clear their throats. Some avoid his gaze while others suddenly stare at him as if considering the image.

David cups his cheek and shakes his head. “No, Diarmuid. I’ll remove your cloak and the priest will anoint your head, and neck, and shoulders. That’s all.”

One of the advisors murmurs, “A lucky man,” and David growls in warning, his dark eyes flashing.

Diarmuid sighs in relief. “Thank goodness.” He doesn’t want anyone but David ever seeing him in such a state. The threatening, protective expression on his husband’s face softens. He brushes Diarmuid’s bottom lip with his thumb.

“I worry it will be very boring for you,” David admits. “It’s a long ceremony. We’ll be walking for some time, and then we’ll have to stand in the church—if you get tired, tell me, please. I’ll have someone bring a chair for you.”

“Of course,” Diarmuid lies. As if he would ever dare to interrupt his husband’s coronation. David is sweet but so _silly_ sometimes. Though he hadn’t thought of how long they’d be standing—David’s leg, the one he injured during the war, sometimes aches. If standing proves to be too much for him tomorrow then Diarmuid will hold his husband’s hand and have David lean on him a little, to ease the pressure on his leg, and no one will know.

He sits through the rest of the meeting quite pleased with himself: he is the David’s support in a myriad of ways. His consort, his husband, his lover, his friend, occasionally someone who offers counsel but always one to lend a sympathetic ear.

When they return to bed for the night David reaches for him again. Diarmuid catches his hand, kisses his fingers, and asks, “Won’t you tell me what’s troubling you?”

David sighs. “Let’s do something more fun. I can count the freckles on your thighs.”

“The freckles will be there later,” Diarmuid says, sternly, “But Avice told me that you’ve been upset, and I saw your face when you were holding court. You looked so unhappy, David. I can’t stand to see you unhappy. I want you to tell me. Please?”

His husband always gives him what he wants. David pulls the blankets over the both of them and holds him close. “I didn’t want this. The kingship. But I took it. I know I can protect people. I’ve always been good at that.”

That’s an encouraging statement. His husband so rarely admits his strengths and virtues. Diarmuid kisses his bearded cheek. “Oh, you are, my love. You take such good care of me and keep me safe, and you’ll do the same for everyone in the kingdom.”

Callused fingers gently massage his shoulder. “But I. I don’t know that I. This court life, Diarmuid. It was never for me. I’m not a man for all this pomp and circumstance. This palace. All gilded and lively. My cousin fit in it. I don’t.”

Diarmuid says, fiercely, “No, you’re not a man for courtly ceremony and parties and favorites. And that’s not important. Not at all. You’re brave and loyal and everyone knows that you’ll care for them. Defend them. I was on the roads, I know—They might have bowed to your cousin because he was the king but they cheer _you_ because you are _a good man_.”

David kisses him, a few errant tears rolling down his cheeks. They get lost in his beard. For a time neither of them say anything. As David sniffles quietly and wipes his eyes, Diarmuid adds, “To be honest, David, I don’t really feel like I fit this place either. I’m all out of sorts. But—but I’m with you again. We’ll do our best together. Won’t we?”

“Of course,” his husband rasps.

They indulge in a few more kisses before sleep overtakes them.

In the morning the attendants bring him a sleeveless silver gown. The bodice is low against his chest and skillfully embroidered with patterns of flowers and leaves. At first Diarmuid thinks there are colorful glass beads sewn into the bodice, but then he realizes that the leaves and vines are small emeralds, the flower petals cut from sapphires and amethysts. The bottom half of the gown is made of fine, thin, silver silk. When he moves it’s like rippling moonlight.

There’s a slit in the side of the gown that reveals his pale leg, displays the sandals made from dark blue ribbons of silk wrapped around his feet and calves. The cloak they pin together across his chest is so sheer he can still see the freckles along his collarbone through it. Diarmuid blushes when he views himself in the mirror.

For the second time in as many days Diarmuid thinks that at one point in time he had been only a novice.

He puts on his dangling, shimmering opal earrings, the matching opal ring, just as brilliant, on his finger. The attendants are absolutely delighted. They shower him in praise, cooing over his curls and his freckled skin and how well the gown complements his features.

But there is only one man whose opinion he cares for. Diarmuid thanks them for their help and asks to be escorted to the king for his judgment. They lead him to the king’s quarters—separate from their shared bedchamber, how confusing—and bow and leave.

Rua’s busy adjusting David’s own cloak when Diarmuid clears his throat. David looks his way and then stops and just _stares_ at him. It’s almost as though—

It’s the same warm, affection expression he’d had on his face on their wedding night, all gentle wonder.

“Do I look presentable, Your Majesty?” he asks.

His husband laughs at the question. “You’re a vision.” Diarmuid flushes with pleasure.

Rua pins the brooch in place and surveys his work. He seems satisfied. With a glance at Diarmuid he asks, “He cleans up fairly well, don’t you think?”

David blushes and stands straighter under Diarmuid’s scrutiny, but he need not have worried because Diarmuid agrees with their advisor.

His tunic and pants are unadorned but well-made, dyed dark like ink. Black is always a color that always makes David look striking. His cloak is where all the fine detail has gone. It’s a lush, dark green embroidered with an oak tree in gold thread—a symbol of a strong, flourishing reign. And with his strong jaw and nose, his beard—neat and well trimmed, today—his height and his muscle… David’s always had such impressive, noble features, but today they seem especially accentuated.

Diarmuid rushes to kiss him. “My handsome husband,” he murmurs, “My king.”

David’s hands rest on his hips. “I only want to be worthy of you.”

“You always have been,” Diarmuid replies.

“You’ll stay by my side?”

“Always, David.”

His husband’s lips brush against his forehead. “Then let’s begin.”

Today, under the eyes of God, David will officially become the king, and Diarmuid, his prince consort.

* * *

It’s a massive procession, even larger than their wedding. It seems the entire palace follows behind them as they link arms and walk through the city to the church. And as soon as they cross the bridge to the Capital proper, the streets are absolutely packed with people, cheering and clapping and yelling. They line either side of the street like walls.

He can feel David tense beside him. The sheer mass of observers, the cacophony of noise—it’s all overwhelming for Diarmuid, he can only imagine how it is for David, who grows anxious at a room for of strangers and loud noises, never mind an entire _city_ of them.

But if they can make it to the church—there will be only officials and advisors and priests and some of the nobles there, and it will quiet and solemn, and David will be more comfortable.

Diarmuid tugs gently on his tunic to grab his attention and says, “David, when Rua and I were traveling the roads were like this.”

At first David doesn’t say anything and he worries that he didn’t hear him above the crowd, but then he replies, “Were you okay, Diarmuid?”

“It was a little scary,” he admits, “There was just so many people everywhere we turned. But they were all so kind. Everyone was so kind to me.”

His husband relaxes, bit by bit, his shoulders losing their tension, his jaw unclenching. “I’m glad. I was worried about you.”

“A woman gave cheese tarts that she’d baked and they were _so good_. Do you remember, at our wedding feast—“

“You ate nearly a whole tray,” David murmurs, “I remember that. I remember everything about our wedding.” He smiles.

He’ll chatter all the way to the church if it keeps David relaxed and happy. “There were some complaints about the food when we were on the road—it was lighter fare than many were used to, I think. But I didn’t mind it. It was sort of like being at the monastery again.” Diarmuid pauses. “And did you know that Rua is very good at cards? I think he won quite a bit of money from the guard captain.”

“Gambling on the job,” David jokes, “Remind me to have a talk with him later.”

“Not the guard captain, too?”

“He’s learned his lesson. He won’t play cards with Rua again. Not after losing that badly.”

Diarmuid laughs, bright and loud, and David presses a quick kiss to his curls. “Thank you, Diarmuid,” he says.

“Whatever for?” Diarmuid innocently asks. His husband merely smiles wider.

They walk on.

It’s silly to be so nervous. There is nothing either of them have to do, really, but stand together as the priest blesses David, to kneel and be anointed and then return to the palace.

But Diarmuid still trembles when they reach the church. His knees shake and his teeth chatter. It’s a massive structure—just like everything else in the Capital—all white stone and spires and arches. Bright but imposing, shining in the sunlight as it casts its shadow over the people who are near it.

David is concerned. “What’s wrong? You’re shaking.”

“Oh, David,” he whispers, “I just don’t want to embarrass you.”

It’s his husband’s turn to comfort him. David gently disentangles from him and laces their fingers together. He gives his hand a squeeze. “You could never. I love you. I’m so glad you’re by my side today.”

“I love you, too.”

Diarmuid enters the church alongside his husband not arm-in-arm but hand-in-hand.

The inside is already packed with spectators. Officials, advisors, nobles. Diarmuid recognizes one of the men who’d initially objected to his charity banquet, the one who’d kissed his hand thrice when they met. There familiar faces from his wedding as well, though he couldn’t place a name to any of them.

Up on the balcony he spots Tadgh and Eoin. His eldest brother leans a column. His gaze drifts from Diarmuid’s to David’s and he gives him a small nod.

David nods back.

Was that an apology from his sibling? Diarmuid wonders, bewildered. And did his husband accept it? The two men are more alike than they think—sometimes they are both quite odd.

On the other side of the balcony stands his father looking pleased beyond belief. All his great planning has come to fruition: his youngest son, married to the king, bringing their family into the royal fold. Diarmuid will let him have this moment because his father will never be in his presence again. It will be his first declaration as prince consort.

He squeezes David’s hand again—those big, rough, callused fingers—and is heartened when his husband squeezes back.

They step in front of the priest. Diarmuid turns and watches the rest of the procession file into the church and find places to stand.

A hush falls over the crowd as the priest clears his throat. He’s an old man, white-haired and slightly stooped, but he has a kindly face that reminds Diarmuid of Ciaran. He indicates that Diarmuid should step to one side. When he lets go of David’s hand and moves the priest smiles and opens his arms wide.

“Who is this man who stands before me?” he asks.

David takes a deep breath and speaks, deep and slightly rough, but loud and audible. “My name is David. The people call me the Mute.”

“Is this your only title?”

“No,” David says, “They call me king.”

The priest addresses the spectators. “Is this so? Is this your king?”

A raucous cheer rises from the crowd. It shakes the church. Shouts and cries of “ _Long live the king_!” echo throughout the building, a never ending chant of support.

Diarmuid presses his hands to his heart. “Long live the king,” he whispers.

The strength of the crowd’s support seems to have surprised his husband. He stares at the priest, wide-eyed, as he waits for the next prompt.

The priest gently pats his shoulder. “And why are you here, oh great and noble king?”

“All my life is a gift from God,” David answers, “I was born by Their love. I am here today by Their grace. We are all Their subjects, and I am a man as any other. I will rule only with Their blessing.”

“Then kneel, David the Mute, and humble yourself before God.”

David kneels. Diarmuid unclasps his cloak. His husband’s tunic is loose for this purpose—the priest gently pulls it off of him and hands it to Diarmuid, who takes it in his hands and drapes it over his arm.

His husband’s broad back, thick with muscle and covered in scars, is revealed to both God and the spectators.

The priest anoints him with oil, brushing a hand across David’s forehead, his shoulders, his neck, his chest. It smells like roses. “May your reign be long and bountiful,” the old man says. He holds his hand out for David’s tunic. Diarmuid hastily passes it back to him. He wraps the cloak around David’s shoulders after he is carefully redressed. Then the priest takes the golden crown, heavy with jewels and the lives of past kings and queens, and places it on David’s head.

“Rise! Greet your subjects, King David.”

David stands, and turns, and bows deeply.

“ _Long live the king_!” The shout starts up again. “ _Long live the king!”_

Now it is Diarmuid’s turn.

They wait for the cries to die down before the priest turns to Diarmuid. “Who is this young man who stands before me?”

It is David who speaks first. “He is called Diarmuid. He was a novice, but now he is my love. My husband.”

The old man asks Diarmuid, “Is this true?”

“Yes,” Diarmuid replies, “I am his love. I am his husband. And he is mine.”

“But you married a man, not a king.”

“He is the same. A king is merely a man, and this man is my husband.”

“And why are you here, Diarmuid?”

“To stand by his side—to be his support and comfort for as long as God wills it.”

The priest says, “Then kneel, prince consort, and receive God’s blessing.”

Diarmuid kneels. The stone floor is cool against his skin. David gently removes his sheer, delicate cloak. David had been stripped to the waist. Diarmuid just has his shoulders and arms bare, but even so it makes him blush with embarrassment. His face is warm when the priest draws a line of the sweet, rose-scented oil across his forehead, along each shoulder and his collarbone. “May you have many, many joyous years together.”

And then it is finished—David replaces his cloak and a smaller, silver crown is placed on top of Diarmuid’s curls.

“Rise, prince consort, and greet your king.”

Before Diarmuid can even fully stand David has him in his arms. His hands press against David’s chest as his husband grabs his hips and his lips find Diarmuid’s. “My love,” his husband murmurs against his mouth. “ _Diarmuid_.”

There is, perhaps, another cheer. More celebration, more cries and chants of support. Diarmuid doesn’t notice them, if there are. All he can hear is the sound of his heart, beating frantically in his chest, and the David’s voice, low and rough, whispering sweet words in his ear.

The people’s king, yes.

But _Diarmuid's_ husband.

* * *

They eschew dinner to whet an appetite of a different kind in the bedchamber.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” David moans against neck. When Diarmuid makes a shy, noncommittal noise he growls, “You are. You’re the most beautiful person in the world. And you let _me_ kiss you and touch you like this.” His husband slips a hand between his legs and rubs his cock.

Diarmuid grinds against David’s palm. He responds, blushing, “I love you David—I _want_ you to touch me.”

“I love you, too.”

And he does. It’s so obvious—David looks at him not just as though Diarmuid is actually the most beautiful person in the world—an overstatement by a besotted husband, surely—but as if there’s no one _but_ Diarmuid. As if Diarmuid’s the most important person to him. When they’re like this—there’s only ever warmth and comfort in his expression, only ever love.

Diarmuid wants to show him the same thing, if he can. He says, softly, “David, I want—I want _all_ of you tonight.”

His husband’s eyes widen. “Diarmuid—are you certain? This isn’t—just because I’m king now doesn’t mean you have to—I love what we have now—“

“I know,” Diarmuid replies, “But, David—I want—when we were apart I couldn’t stand it, I missed you all the time—your lips and your hands—and now we’re together again and—I want us to become one. I need to know how you feel inside me.”

David swallows and nods. His face is flushed red. “If that’s what you want. But we’ll go slowly. And if you’re uncomfortable or in pain you _must_ tell me and I’ll stop. It should never hurt, Diarmuid.”

“It won’t. I know it won’t, David, because you’d never hurt me.”

Something extraordinarily tender flickers across David’s face. “I love you,” he says again.

The bed is plush, the blankets warm and soft. As he undresses and waits for David to return with the oil, Diarmuid rubs against them and sighs, enjoying the way they feel on his bare skin.

“Are you ready?”

At David’s voice he sits up, blushing. “Yes, David.”

“Okay.” His husband is naked and half-hard already, but he looks nervous. He’s holding a small jar in his hand. It’s trembling, slightly. “Lie back for me?”

Of course, David has to prepare him. Cathal had explained the entire process to him, once. It was quite detailed. Back then it’d shocked him, but here, now, with David’s fingers covered in oil—it’s exciting. Exhilarating. He begins to say, giddy, “Oh, David—Cathal told me that sometimes you have to—“

There’s disbelief in David’s voice. “Diarmuid, please—don’t mention another man when we’re in bed together.”

“Oh! I’m so sorry, David, I didn’t mean to…” His voice trails off.

David strokes his hip. “No, I know you didn’t mean anything by it. But I get jealous. I only want you to think of me like this—to only be with me.”

Diarmuid says, truthfully, “You’re the only person I’ve _ever_ wanted, David. No one else.” He giggles as David kisses the inside of his thigh.

“Good,” his husband growls. “Now, lay back for me.”

David’s slick fingers brush against his hole and Diarmuid shivers. The soothing hand returns, gentle and warm on his skin. “I’m okay, David.”

“If you want me to stop at any time, just tell me.”

“I will.”

Seemingly satisfied with that promise, David slowly eases his finger inside him.

It’s—odd. Not uncomfortable exactly but strange, and Diarmuid is very aware of the intrusion. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, clenches at the blankets, and murmurs, “I’m okay.”

David watches him carefully. “You’re sure?”

“Mm-hm.” Diarmuid nods.

He’s sensitive. When David draws his finger back he whimpers, just a little, and when he presses back in he gasps. Slowly, he grows used to the motion, settles back into the blankets more comfortably. The entire process repeats when David adds a second finger; he tenses at the stretch, breathes through the slight burn, sighs at his husband’s comforting ministrations. The way David pumps his fingers in and out of him has him sweating and shaking on the bed, and the oil—it’s such a large amount they’ve used and they aren’t even ready yet, Cathal had said it would take a lot and some of the books he’s read mentioned preparation in passing, but—

“What are you thinking about?” David asks. He scissors his fingers and Diarmuid gasps before replying.

“The books that I looked at—the, um, the _romantic_ ones. They never really discussed how much oil would be used. Usually it isn’t important, I don’t think.”

David snorts. “Ah, _those_ kinds of books. Those are worthless things, Diarmuid.”

“Then why are there so many in your library?” He laughs as David reddens and sputters something about inheritance and collections. “I like some of them. The ones with the brave, kind, handsome hero. They remind me of my husband.”

Diarmuid marvels at the color of David’s deepening blush. It’s like a sunrise.

He wiggles his hips to encourage David to go further. After a few more quick kisses along his thighs the third finger slides in and Diarmuid scrabbles at the blankets. “Oh, David, wait, wait, please—“ He can see his husband’s burgeoning panic and he quickly adds, “Stay still for a moment? I just need to—I’m okay.” Once he takes a deep breath and nods David starts his slow, steady rhythm, his fingers large and callused and they stretch him so wonderfully but he’s still oh-so-gentle, David’s always so gentle with him—

Eventually each thrust elicits only a desire for more. Diarmuid rocks his hips in time with David’s fingers so that they brush inside him just right and make him pant with need.

“I think I’m ready.” There can’t be that much more to it. David’s stretched him and prepared him and—it should be fine, but then, his cock is so much larger and thicker than his fingers. The thought makes Diarmuid’s heart pound with both nervousness and excitement.

The fingers are removed—he feels empty, now—as David takes the time to lather his cock with oil. It’s red and hard and slick between his legs and soon enough it’ll be inside Diarmuid— _David_ will be inside Diarmuid—

He bites his lip, uncertain. “Will—will it be better on my back or on my knees?”

“Here, Diarmuid—“ David pulls him into his lap, maneuvering Diarmuid’s legs so they’re wrapped around his waist. “Like this. So we can hold each other.”

It’s just like an embrace, only—Diarmuid bites his lip—only they’ll be joined together.

He sits up, grasping David’s shoulders, buoyed by his gentle expression and the rough, warm hand rubbing his hip, and slowly lowers himself onto his husband’s cock.

“ _A-ah_ —“ A whimper escapes his lips. David’s fingers had been—a lot—but he’d thought—David’s just _so big_ —

His husband’s voice grows concerned, his grip on Diarmuid’s hips tighten to stop him from going further. “Diarmuid—not if it hurts, I said.”

“No, David, it doesn’t hurt, I promise.” Diarmuid gasps. The head of David’s cock is in him, teasing him as David holds him up. “It’s just—it’s just _different_. Please?”

David stares up at him, brows furrowed, but then he nods and relaxes.

He eases himself down, inch by inch, until David is fully inside him and Diarmuid is clenching around his husband’s cock.

Diarmuid buries his face in the crook of his neck, gasping and shivering in his husband’s arms. David lets out a hiss. His hands circle around Diarmuid’s waist, fingers digging into his hips. “Oh, _fuck_ , _Diarmuid_ —Are you alright?”

“I—“ Diarmuid swallows. He feels a bit dizzy. David’s fully sheathed inside him and stretching him out and filling him up and holding him so sweetly and tightly and he smells of sweat and lust and passion and it’s— Diarmuid lifts his head. He presses his lips to David’s before pulling back and panting, “You feel so good in me. I didn’t know you would feel that good. Just—just wait a moment, please? I just—“

David’s rasp is full of gentle affection. “Of course.”

They stay like that, nestled against one another, as Diarmuid’s breathing calms. His husband strokes his back in long, soothing movements, his calloused hands rubbing pleasantly against Diarmuid’s skin. Diarmuid sighs and then slowly, tentatively rolls his hips.

His husband’s long, thick cock pulses inside him, rubbing against his inner walls. It feels _so good_. The noise that Diarmuid makes is half a gasp and half a sob.

David chokes out, still worried, “Slowly. Go slow— _fuck_ —” He breaks off into a groan as Diarmuid tries another experimental roll of his hips. And then another. And another.

“Yes, David,” Diarmuid moans, “Oh, yes— _yes_ , I—oh, _David_ —“

His moans grow loader each time he rocks against David’s body. When he presses his hands to David’s shoulders and lifts himself up—just a little bit—to fall back down on David’s cock, their skin slapping together, Diarmuid begins to cry out. He covers his hand with his mouth, blushing furiously—but his husband grabs his wrist and then sharply thrusts up into him, forcing a strangled scream of pleasure from Diarmuid’s throat.

“Don’t hide your sounds,” David rasps into his ear, “Let me hear them. I need to know you’re enjoying this. That I’m making you feel good.”

His next thrust has Diarmuid shaking. He kisses his husband’s neck and pants, “D-David—you’re the only one who’s ever—you’re so good, no one’s _ever_ made me feel like you do— _Oh_! I love you, I love you, I love you—“

David growls another curse. “ _Fuck_.” It makes Diarmuid’s cock twitch. It’s trapped between their stomachs; each time Diarmuid grinds against David it rubs against his stomach, smearing it his abs with precum.

His husband thrusts inside Diarmuid with a slow, steady rhythm—as if he’s savoring the feeling.

Diarmuid’s toes curl. His nails dig into David’s back. He closes his eyes and tosses his head back, gasping for breath. David’s hands move from his back to his hips and suddenly Diarmuid’s not the one moving—it’s David, lifting him up and pulling him back down onto him. “ _Diarmuid_ …” He gasps his name like a prayer, voice full of love and longing, hands gripping him tight, cock impossibly thick inside him—

Diarmuid comes with a cry, spilling onto David’s chest as he embraces him. He shivers in his husband’s arms; he can feel himself clenching around David’s cock as each wave of his orgasm rolls through him.

David flips him on his back. Diarmuid’s legs are spread wide and high in the air as David crawls on top of him. Never once does he stop moving his hips; his thrusts become even more frantic as he fucks Diarmuid through his trembling bursts of pleasure. It’s all too much and yet not enough—Diarmuid nestles into the crook of David’s neck as his husband moans. It _is_ a good feeling—to hear his lover’s noises of pleasure, to know that it’s _himself_ that’s drawing those sounds from David. That all he can do is hold tight and be taken, such is the intensity of David’s desire for him. He wants _more._

“David,” he murmurs, “David—inside me, please, I want to feel you come inside me—“

His husband’s always given him everything he’s ever asked for.

Almost as soon as the words leave Diarmuid’s lips David gives one final deep thrust and tenses and groans and then Diarmuid’s being filled with his cum. David collapses on top of him, panting, his hips still rocking against Diarmuid’s.

It’s always hot and sticky when it hits his skin but _inside_ him—another shiver of pleasure flows through his body. This is David in the best of ways: his husband touching him, covering him, wrapped around him, inside him, filling him. Diarmuid’s absolutely and utterly surrounded by his love.

Does he make David feel just as adored? Just as happy? To be certain, he nuzzles against his neck, presses kisses to David’s cooling skin beaded with sweat, says, “I love you. That was wonderful, and I love you so much.”

The much-abused bed creaks as David sits up to look at him. He’s smiling, but there’s worry in his eyes. “It wasn’t too much? I didn’t hurt you?”

“No, David, you felt—amazing.”

“Wanted this to be perfect for you,” David mumbles, blushing, “But I kind of. Lost control there. At the end.”

“I _liked_ that. I like feeling you like that. I like that you want me.”

David strokes his cheek. “I always want you. Was it really all right? Did you enjoy yourself?”

Diarmuid teases, “Your Majesty, now I think you’re fishing for compliments.” But he enjoys giving them, especially to David, who hasn’t received nearly enough of them in his life. And so he continues, “When you were in me—you felt so good, I didn’t want it to end. But—but when you came inside me—I like that. I want you to do that more.”

A kind of strangled laugh leaves David’s lips. “It won’t be a hardship for me, Diarmuid.”

Their touches turn light, their kisses delicate, and then the two of them are cuddled together once more. Diarmuid listens to David’s heartbeat, strong and steady and comforting to his ears. His husband traces patterns along his hip with a finger, slow circles and swirls and lines.

Tomorrow he’ll have to learn the layout of the castle—it’s such an opulent place, the halls filled with rugs and tapestries and paintings, the many, many rooms with so much furniture it’s a chore to avoid bumping into things. Then he has to meet the staff, all the servants and guards, not to mention the rest of the advisors and court officials—and the nobles—they’ll be around quite a bit, won’t they? Diarmuid will have to learn all their coat of arms. And—everything’s more of a show, at court—he and David won’t get their private breakfasts together. And Diarmuid probably won’t be able to read in the library by himself. And the chapel will always be bustling with other people.

As long as there’s a garden, he thinks, but then, it is a shame that they won’t get to see their own grow…

“Diarmuid?” David asks.

He presses a kiss to his husband’s broad, scarred chest. “Mm?”

“Tomorrow I’m going to tell the court that we’ll be returning to our home. We’re going to go see your sister’s family, and then we’ll go to your monastery, and then back to the castle. Permanently.”

There’s a moment’s pause as the words settle in Diarmuid’s mind. Then he pushes himself up so that he and David are looking eye-to-eye. “I—really, David? We could do that? The trip? And we could stay in the castle? Forever?”

“Do you want that?”

“Of course I do, but—but you’re the king, this is your _palace_ —“

“There’s no law that says I have to live here,” David says, drily, “Believe me. I’ve checked. I’ve thought about this a lot. While waiting for you.”

Diarmuid says, quietly, “But your family lived here.”

“Those paintings on the wall? Or the bones in the crypt? You’re my family. Anywhere with you is a home. But we’ve both said that we don’t care for this place. So tell me, truthfully, where do you wish to live? Be selfish.”

It’s rather anathema to how he was raised. Diarmuid bites his lip. He thinks the same—anywhere with David is home. But, if given the choice, if they really could—

“With you,” he finally admits, “In our castle, with our household, with Ivett and Avice and Rua, and our kitchen and our library and our bed and our garden. That’s—that’s what I want, David.”

His husband kisses him, slow and languid. “Then you’ll have it. Didn’t I tell you I’d give you anything you wanted?”

Diarmuid laughs with joy.

In the morning they will be packed to go to Aoife’s manor and meet her husband and greet Young Aoife, who has learned to walk and is running rampant. After that they will take the long journey back to the monastery, back to where Diarmuid was raised, and David will meet the men who cared for him for his entire life, all the souls that Diarmuid loves and cherishes. They will shake the Abbot’s hand and bow, they will hug Ciaran, and he and David will walk along the beach, hand-in-hand, talking and laughing.

And then they will make their way back to their own castle, where Avice and Ivett and the rest of their household are waiting, with the cozy library packed from ceiling to floor with shelves of books, with the kitchen that Diarmuid loves to cook in, with the garden which is completely theirs—his and David’s—and which grows larger and more vibrant every day, just like their love.

He smiles at David. His husband gazes at him with adoring eyes and brushes their lips together so softly and so gently.

“I love you,” David murmurs.

Diarmuid smiles. “I love _you_.”

And after that—whatever they may encounter, wherever life takes them, they will face it together, not as king and his consort but as husband and husband, utterly in love.

They fall asleep like that: peaceful and happy in one another’s arms.


	11. Epilogue: The Pilgrimage

It’s a beautiful land. David admires the lakes, the mountains, the forests. It’s so quiet and peaceful. Serene. Not wild, as others have described it, but rather free, flourishing, and unrestrained.

That Diarmuid was born in such a country and then raised in the tranquility of a monastery—it’s no wonder his husband is so gentle, so calm, so lovely.

When he relays this thought to Diarmuid the young man blushes, his freckled face glowing in the campfire’s light. “Oh, David,” he murmurs, “That’s just the romantic in you.”

Never before in his life has David been described as a romantic. No one has ever looked at him, all thick muscle and jagged scars and rasps and growls, and called him sweet. No one except for Diarmuid, who sees a great many characteristics in him that David himself does not see. Would never have even believed, years ago.

But Diarmuid is sincere and earnest. When Diarmuid tells him that he is handsome, David believes it. When Diarmuid says he is gentle, he believes it. When Diarmuid reminds him that he is good, he believes it.

When they are in bed together, wrapped in one another’s arms, and his husband looks up at him through long, dark lashes and says, “I love you,” David believes it.

With all his heart.

Soon it will be time to rest. They still have a ways to travel in the morning and the night is growing cold. The horses are sleeping, most of the attendants are in their tents, and only the guards are outside with them. But for now they sit nestled together, under the stars.

* * *

They’re not that far away from the monastery when they spot a man yelling at a herd of cows. No, wait, he’s—actually _arguing_ with them, it seems. Not just cursing at stubborn creatures but shouting, then waiting for some sort of response from the cattle, and then responding angrier than ever.

“How dare you!” he is saying, “This is impertinence of the worst sort! I was there when you were calved—“

David holds up a hand for the retinue to stop. Diarmuid halts next to him, patting Seilide. “What is it?”

“That man over there,” David says, pointing to the man trying to tear out what little hair he has left as he upbraids the unbothered cows, “He’s concerning me.” He’ll not have any madmen near Diarmuid.

But his husband spots him and is clambering off of Seilide before David can say another word. “That’s Brother Bressel!”

“That’s a _monk_?” David’s heard quite a few blasphemous phrases spill from the man’s mouth in the few moments he’s been observing him. “Diarmuid, wait, don’t—“

Diarmuid is already running toward the odd monk. He moves so much more quickly in proper riding clothes. David’s stride is longer but his husband’s enthusiasm is greater, and he’s sprinting after him as they rush through the grass. A few of the cows turn their heads to watch the two new arrivals. If David didn’t know any better, he’d say they almost looked mischievous.

“Brother!” Diarmuid calls as he reaches the monk. “Brother Bressel!”

The monk briefly glances back. “Ah, there you are, lad. Where have you been? Now, help me with these blasted creatures—you know they’ve got it out for me.”

The cattle low in response. It sounds not unlike laughter.

His husband walks to the hapless monk and the misbehaving herd. David follows closely behind. “Brother,” Diarmuid scolds, “I’ve told you many a time that you’ve got to ask them nicely.”

“Oh, _nicely_ he says. They’ve never treated _me_ nicely. Not in all my years.”

“Start now, then.”

David watches the exchange with complete bewilderment. As the two converse, the captain of the guard stops his horse next to him. He looks just as uncertain about the situation as David feels. “Is everything alright here, Your Majesty?” he asks.

Before he can answer the monk snaps, “No, of course not—does everything look alright to you? These damned cows again! They won’t listen to a word I say!” Then he stops and squints at David, the captain, and then to the rest of the retinue, watching from a distance. “Who’s this man, Diarmuid?” Bressel asks.

“This is my husband, Brother. David. Remember? I left to get married.” After a moment Diarmuid says, “He’s the king, now.”

Bressel snorts. “Ah, a ruler. Always one of them around. One dies and another takes their place. Never ends.” He turns to David. “I’d rather have someone lend me a hand. What do you know about cows?”

“Not much,” David admits, “Except to follow Diarmuid’s lead with them.”

“Oh, well, how unusual!” Bressel claps his shoulder with a hand. “This kingdom’s had four rulers in my lifetime, and here’s the first wise one!”

Diarmuid’s face turns red with embarrassment. “Brother Bressel, please! Be respectful to my husband!”

David bursts out laughing as the monk shrugs and says, “I think I do remember Brother Ciaran mentioning something about you being prince consort now, lad. That’s a fine thing! Very useful! You’ve all these people to help us with the cattle now.”

The guards and attendants watch with incredulous stares as Diarmuid chides the elderly monk again before speaking softly to the cows. He calls them by name, one by one, and asks that they start making their way home. To the others’ astonishment, the livestock sniff curiously as Diarmuid, nuzzling him with their heads—almost like greeting an old friend, David thinks—and then turn to amble back to monastery.

The old monk gives a happy exclamation—“Hah!”—and wanders after them, all smiles.

David watches Bressel walk away and then moves to help Diarmuid back onto Seilide. But his husband shakes his head. “I’d like to walk back to the monastery, David. Could I do that? Just as the pilgrims do.”

“Of course,” David immediately replies, “Let’s walk together. It’s a fine day.”

Diarmuid kisses his cheek and takes his hand. The retinue follows behind, slow and steady on horseback, as the king and his prince consort walk together under the bright, shining sun and a clear, blue sky.

The monastery is below the hills, near the shore. David’s never seen anything quite like it. It’s a far cry from the Capital’s churches, massive and gleaming with white stone and decorated with intricate, delicate stained-glass windows. It’s different from even the chapel in their castle where Diarmuid prays every morning, kneeling on dark blue tile in front of an altar covered in candles and flowers.

Here, the church and the monks’ cells are made from plain gray stone. They are not neatly cut but rather seem to have been either found and used in their natural state or roughly broken to fit the buildings. Simple, domed constructions to provide a simple, ascetic way of living—there is a place for each monk to sleep, a place for them to cook and eat, and a place for them to pray. A structured, meditative life.

The monastery’s yard is neat and tidy. The grass is green. Chickens and goats and sheep wander about a section of fenced-in land. Many of the monks are tending to a sizeable garden. Some are harvesting parsnips and spinach, while others are covering the plots with soil and straw.

“What’s that for, Diarmuid?” David asks as he carefully helps his husband down the hill.

Diarmuid replies, “Oh, thank you, David. It’s to protect the crops that’ll still be growing through the winter. To keep the worst of the weather off of them.”

“I see.” There’s still much he has to learn about gardening. He’s looking forward to the spring. Their onions and garlic won’t be ready for harvest yet, but they’ll be able to plant much more. Maybe flowers, this time. David likes the image of Diarmuid laughing and chattering among a field of bright, swaying color—bluebells and primroses, marigolds and buttercups. A beauty among beauty.

As the cattle meander back to their pen, Bressel cups his hands to his mouth and calls out, “Look! Look who’s come to visit us! Diarmuid’s back!” And then he seems to remember David and adds, “Oh, and here’s the king as well!”

Another bark of laughter bursts from David’s throat.

The monks all stop in their work. Then one, taller and slightly younger than his companions—an older man with a salt-and-pepper beard but not quite elderly yet—throws aside his spade and runs toward them.

Beside him Diarmuid begins to shake. “Ciaran. David, that’s Ciaran.” He sounds dazed. “Oh, I missed him so much.”

David brushes an errant curl behind his ear. “Go on, then. Go see your father.”

His husband’s face breaks into a wide, joyful smile. Diarmuid grabs David’s wrist, kisses his palm, and then immediately takes off, rushing to meet the man who raised him.

He practically tackles the monk. His hug bowls Ciaran over. They tumble to the ground, laughing and crying. Ciaran holds Diarmuid’s face in his hands, and as David reaches them he can hear him murmuring, “Oh, my boy, my little boy…”

Tears stream down Diarmuid’s face as he smiles. “I thought maybe I’d never see you again,” he cries. “When I left—and then, when I didn’t get any word from you in so long, I thought maybe you forgot me—but then I _did_ get your letters and we wrote to each other but I still _missed you_ and David said we should come and see you and I wanted it to be a surprise—Did we surprise you, Ciaran?”

“Yes, oh, my goodness, yes, you have. What a wonderful surprise. The best surprise I’ve ever had.”

“I love you,” Diarmuid mumbles into the man’s robes.

Ciaran holds him tight. His eyes are red-rimmed. “I love you so much. Always remember that.” He looks up at David. “Thank you, Your Majesty. For bringing Diarmuid back to visit.”

It’s an extraordinarily intimate moment. David feels as though he’s intruding, that he ought to leave the two alone. But at Ciaran’s words he clears his throat and says, “It wasn’t entirely altruistic.”

“No?” Ciaran’s brows furrow.

David replies, “No. My husband is. The best of people. There’s never been anyone in my life as kind. As gentle. And he loves you. Admires you. I wanted to see you with my own eyes. To meet my father-in-law.”

The monk seems to be too emotional to speak. He nods and closes his eyes, pulling Diarmuid ever closer. But Diarmuid says, quietly but with affection, “David, I told you that you’re a romantic.”

* * *

The rest of the monks greet Diarmuid enthusiastically, rushing from their chores to hug him or ruffle his hair. The Abbot embraces him warmly and greets each and every one of their party with open arms, welcoming them to their home.

It’s not a large place. David worries that the retinue will be too much for the monks to handle. That they’ll have to delve into their winter stores just to appear as good hosts for royalty.

“We’ve our own provisions,” he tells the Abbot. “Don’t concern yourself about sharing your resources with us.”

The elderly man shakes his head. “Nonsense, Your Majesty. It is harvest time, and God has blessed us with Their bounty. The mast in the forests, the eggs from the hens, the milk and cheese from the cows and goats and sheep. The crops from the garden, the fruit from the orchard, the fish from the sea. There is always plenty, always. And how could we scrimp on hospitality when you’ve all gone to the trouble of bringing Diarmuid to us once more? Don’t worry. We are very glad to have you here. All of you.”

Still, David has them camp away from the monastery so as not to further disturb the monks’ daily routine. As the attendants set up tents David watches, pleased, as Diarmuid falls back into old habits, idly sweeping the stone path clean, weeding the garden, and joining the brothers in their prayers. David listens to their hymns, eyes closed, and picks out Diarmuid’s voice.

When was the last time he took a nap? As a toddler, when he still had a nursemaid, most likely. But the sun and the shade of the tree he rests against, the sound of his husband’s low, sweet singing—it fills him with peace.

Diarmuid brings him such peace.

He dreams of gentle touches and soft laughter and the warmth of their bed as they talk late into the night, falling asleep to one another’s voices. Of comfort and love.

David dozes off long enough for the prayer to finish. He wakes to his husband speaking not to God but to him. “David? David, I didn’t know you were tired!”

When he blinks the sleep from his eyes there is Diarmuid kneeling beside him in the grass, framed by sunlight, the corners of his honey-brown eyes crinkled as he smiles.

David replies, “I didn’t realize, either. But it was a long journey. And your singing…”

“Ah, good thing prayers are so long. I bored you into a nice rest,” Diarmuid teases, pressing a kiss to his cheek. He’s joking, but David shakes his head. He wants Diarmuid to know he wasn’t bored, he was—

“You make me feel safe,” David says, firmly, “I can relax, with you.”

Diarmuid kisses him again. “I’m so glad, my love. Are you still tired?”

“No. Did you have something in mind?”

“I want to show you the beach,” Diarmuid says. “My favorite place. We have time, though. We can wait until tomorrow, if you’d like.”

But David is already sitting up. He denies Diarmuid nothing. It brings him joy to bring his husband joy, to see his face light up, to hear his laugh and see his smile. “I’d love to. Let’s go.”

They walk the well-worn path to the shore.

He has seen the sea before, of course. The first time seems such a long, long time ago now. He’d arrived at the harbor to find it absolutely teeming with eager young men and women even more eager to be brave and loyal soldiers for God and king. David had been one of them.

It’d been the number of ships he’d noticed then, as well as the sheer mass of people about, all ready for war. The sheer vast expanse of the sea only hit him when the shoreline finally disappeared, leaving them surrounded by water on all side, the armada floating like a fleet of child’s toys—small, in the face of God’s grand creation.

The journey back had been almost unbearable. He’d been too exhausted, too despairing to get out of bed but always awake, haunted by either the memories of battle and bloodshed or the roar of the waves crashing against the hull of the ship.

He’d vowed to leave it all behind as he waded to shore. David had stripped off all his vestments of war and gone back to his family’s castle with the weight of the armor off his back but the weight of guilt and remorse still heavy on his shoulders. And there he’d stayed, angry and miserable and alone.

Until Diarmuid came into his life.

His husband sighs when they reach the beach. He leans into David’s side, voice thick with emotion, and murmurs, “Oh, David, it’s just as I remembered. I thought it might be different, now, but—but it’s still just as beautiful."

It’s the glittering blue-green sea that Diarmuid’s staring at, but David’s watching Diarmuid as he speaks. He listens to his husband talk about the first time Ciaran took him fishing and they caught a basketful of wriggling fish for the monks’ dinner, warns him against walking on algae-covered stones because they are so slippery, instructs him on how to harvest razor clams from the sand and laughs at memories of frustrated, failed attempts.

Beautiful, David thinks, yes, absolutely and utterly beautiful.

The air is fresh and crisp with the salt scent of the sea. The sky is blue and clear overhead. Gulls circle above, their calls swallowed by the rolling waves.

And there is Diarmuid, as beautiful and lovely as ever, with bright, shining eyes, windswept curls, and cheeks pink and flushed from the cool breeze.

The last time he had arrived at a beach David had torn off his armor and dropped his sword and left them behind to rust.

Diarmuid turns to him. “You’re thinking very hard about something.” He smooths David’s brow, his hands small and soft. “Tell me what you’re thinking about?”

“Just how much I love you,” David says. He will never grow tired of the sheer delight that crosses Diarmuid’s face each time he tells him this, nor at how soft his husband’s voice goes when Diarmuid murmurs the phrase back to him with such sincerity.

“I love you, too.” Then Diarmuid smiles wide and says, “David, let’s walk together.”

He laces their fingers together and presses a kiss to Diarmuid’s lips. “Let’s,” he replies.

Now, here, David takes off his boots and walks in the tide-damp sand with bare feet, hand-in-hand with his husband.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.


End file.
